Science Fiction Microstory Contest discussion
OCTOBER 2017 MICROSTORY CONTEST - STORIES ONLY
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REBOOTBy Tom Olbert
“I’m coming, I’m coming,” Gavin grumbled, hastily tying on his bathrobe. What idiot was pounding on his door at the crack of dawn? He opened the door.
No one there. Just a package, sitting there in the hallway. Probably a mistake, he figured, taking it inside and opening it. Inside was a curious-looking metallic box-like modular gizmo. He examined it. A very complex set of controls inside. He noticed the note inside the package.
Hastily scrawled in a shaky hand. The letterhead said it was from the university physics lab. His old alma mater. A far louder pounding came at the door, the whole apartment shuddering. Startled, he looked at the door and saw it splitting down the middle, the hinges tearing loose from the plaster. His heart pounded, his blood running cold as the door splintered.
His heart dropped into his stomach at the sight of the thing on the other side. He had to be dreaming. That twisted monstrosity…like a pulsing mass of mutating, wormy tissues, changing shape every moment, claws and fangs sprouting out of a thing that oozed through the door, almost too large to enter, sprouting spidery limbs and tentacles as it slithered towards him. Wake up, dammit…Wake up!
A blast of wind emanated from a searing white explosion of energy over the sink…and, a man dressed in some kind of futuristic black armor leapt through. The weird sci-fi hero blasted the alien monstrosity with a ray-gun gizmo of some kind. “I’m either high or dreaming,” Gavin thought as the monster disintegrated.
“Out the window, now!” the strange man shouted. “There’ll be more of them. Bring the box!”
Well, if this was a dream, he may as well enjoy it, he figured. Out the window, onto the fire escape, and up to the roof he and his bizarre savior climbed. Ow. The iron ladder was ice-cold against his bare feet. No dream, surely. A high, then. It damn well better be. As they reached the roof, Gavin gasped in horror. The city below was in flames. Huge, shape-shifting monstrosities attacking and killing people below.
“What the hell’s happening?” he shouted in a cracking throat.
“The answer’s in your hands,” the man said, pointing to the box Gavin held. “Inside that box is a duplication of the initial cosmic particle, under the same conditions as before.”
Gavin stared at him, his mouth agape. “You mean…”
“I mean, activate that device, and a whole new Big Bang happens. This universe ceases to exist, and a new one is born to replace it. Cosmic reboot.”
“What is all this?!”
“In creating the genesis particle, those idiots at the cyclotron triggered a quantum chain that opened rifts into a dark matter dimension. Dark matter beings from that dimension are swarming into our continuum. We can’t see them, but they can re-shape conventional living matter into any form they choose. They seem to be taking form from our innermost fear and hate. It delights them. Trigger the device!”
Gavin stared at the stranger, the blood draining from his face. “Are you nuts?”
The man held a strange gadget against Gavin’s head. Gavin screamed, images of a futuristic hell raging through his mind. Humanity horribly enslaved in hellish mines, the Earth splitting into a volcanic furnace, immense factories shaping interstellar weapons, mutated cyborg monstrosities generating rifts and invading other universes. “That’s the future of the multiverse, unless you end this!” the man shouted. “I know, because that’s the future I came from.”
“Don’t listen to him, Gavin,” a woman’s voice said.
Gavin turned, and there she was, beautiful and naked, taking form out of a dark, mutating alien mass.
“Give it to me,” she said, softly, her eyes blank, her golden hair flowing as her immense bat-like wings retracted into her lithe, shapely form. Her clawed fingers touched Gavin’s face.
He swooned in ecstasy, his mind flooding with visions of orgies of sensual pleasure awaiting him on luxuriant space stations orbiting a dying Earth. He trembled in lusting anticipation as he started to hand her the box.
The temptress shrieked and disintegrated as the future man blasted her, seizing the box. The man touched a stud at his collar, and his face-plate retracted, revealing his features. Gavin stared in disbelief at the sight of his own face. “I just had to give myself one more chance,” the older him said with a sigh. “Damn you.”
Gavin screamed as his future self activated the device.
Boxed InThe president read the stained, hand-copied letter accompanying the igneous black box sitting on his desk. For the moment, the glistening curiosity was merely a paperweight, keeping that day’s casualty reports from blowing onto the floor of the Oval Office. He looked over his wireframe spectacles at the somewhat disheveled figure before him.
“Well Mr. Westinghouse,” he sighed, the fatigue telling in his voice. “I appreciate your… discretion in this matter.”
“It is my honor, Mr. President, to continue the long tradition of my family as keepers of the relic.”
“Indeed.” The president’s eye caught dates, names and numbers on the closest report. Its unsecured edges fluttered gently in the breeze. So many young men dead on both sides…
Rubbing his temples, the president leaned back in his creaking desk chair that seemed utterly incapable of containing his lanky frame.
“But I must caution you Mr. President, this is no trifle – as your predecessors have warned. It has certain… Newtonian properties that cannot be escaped.”
“Yes, the letter was quite specific. For every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction…”
“Not necessarily equal Mr. President!” Westinghouse quickly interjected. “Sometimes better and sometimes worse. I implore you sir, do not underestimate the cost it may impose upon you. It might be more than you can bear.”
“Could it be any worse than what the poor widows of this great nation have patiently borne these long years as we’ve dragged their husbands off to war? Or the orphans who mourn fathers they will never see again in this life? No Mr. Westinghouse, it is they, not I, who have borne the burdens of this war. I shall see it ended – no matter the cost.”
The Oval Office was quiet save for the ticking of the grandfather clock and the faint sound of traffic beyond the open windows.
“You are decided then?”
“I am.”
“Then place your hands upon the box and speak thus…”
***
The president fingered the U.S. Military Telegraph once more, almost expecting it to vanish like the morning mist. Six days had passed since the end of hostilities, yet the stirrings of peace had not revived his soul. He glanced at the lustrous black box on his dresser.
“Are you ready my dear?” asked his wife. “Are you feeling okay?”
“Yes…yes of course,” he tucked her arm gently under his. “Let’s go to the theater.”
***
The president shifted uncomfortably in his seat, perpetually tortured by his back injuries yet often forced by the demands of office to pretend they did not exist.
“Eh, thank you for coming Mr. eh Westinghouse on such short notice.”
“It is my pleasure of course sir,” replied the sharply dressed and well-manicured guest.
“You understand Mr. Westinghouse, that eh, we cannot allow the Soviets to beat us in the space race. It is not only a matter of national pride, but of survival. Space is the new high ground and we must have it.”
“Mr. President, it has been the long tradition of my family as keepers of the relic to serve in times of national need. Only you can decide what is best for the nation – and how to achieve it.”
“Putting a man on the moon in this de-cade would show the Soviets, and the world, that the United States will pay any price, bear any burden, meet any hardship, support any friend, oppose any foe to assure the survival and success of liberty.”
“You’ve made up your mind then Mr. President?”
“I have.”
“Then place your hands upon the box and repeat after me…”
***
Sitting in the back of the open-topped limousine, the president took in the crowds waving to him and his wife from the side of the road.
The governor’s wife turned to him from the front and commented, “Well Mr. President, you can't say they don’t love you."
“No, you certainly can’t,” he replied.
Suddenly, two shots rang out in quick succession. Instantly the president slouched in his seat, but he watched as his wife jerked spasmodically in the seat next to him. She collapsed in a heap beside him, bleeding profusely from two head wounds.
A Secret Service agent yelling, “Go! Go!” climbed on the back of the limousine, which accelerated out of the motorcade with squealing tires towards the nearest hospital.
“Jackie, Jackie, can you hear me? I love you Jackie!”
As the panicked procession faded away, Westinghouse dug his toe into the dirt on a grassy knoll and slowly shook his head.
(750 words in story) Justin Sewall © 2017
Reviews/critiques welcome
Lost PatrolBy C. Lloyd Preville
Copyright © 2017
(748 words)
Private Adams carefully aimed his Line of Sight Transmitter rifle. It was a revolutionary platoon sniper weapon. The rifle projected a 20-milimeter diameter projectile up to fifty kilometers. A laser set the range for the warhead, activating it 10mm to 5 meters beyond the surface of the target. The projectile detonated like a hand grenade upon arrival.
Adams was working a squad of infantry targets left-to-right. The enemy had taken up firing positions in a trench 2 kilometers away.
Adams slid the arrival depth control rearward, to the default 10mm depth setting. Then he targeted the slight portion of helmet visible just above the trench line. His enemy was careless, probably due to their ridiculously inadequate training prior to being rushed out to fight on the moon. Earth wanted to intimidate and bully the Loonies, but had no clue about fighting in low-gravity.
Adams aimed carefully, and slowly pulled the trigger. The rifle clicked loudly, with no recoil. He saw a gory explosion where the helmet had been, and four or five other bodies flew upward, killed or wounded by shrapnel and cartwheeled into space by their violent reactions.
A silent shadow slid across the bright canvas of stars above the trench. Adams shifted rearward to aim higher and centered the silhouette of a flyer in his night-vision scope. He set the depth control to 10-centimeters and fired 3 times. He didn’t even need to lead the craft. The flyer’s dark canopy illuminated with a yellow-orange flash following each loud click, and the flyer nosed down and impacted the ground at a high rate of speed. The gritty regolith erupted in a slow-motion jet of dirt high into the lunar sky.
An incoming artillery tone went off in his earpieces, and he pulled his shield over his back. It was much too heavy to drag around a battlefield on Earth, but here on the moon in 1/6 gravity, it only weighed 15 kilograms. He waited anxiously, carefully arranging his limbs well inside the outer edges of the coffin-lid shaped shield. The dirt around him erupted in small geysers, and random impacts painfully rung his metal and ceramic shield. He didn’t mind; he was much more concerned about cluster missiles since unlike exploding shells, these released a clutch of small, guided grenades that could easily punch through his armor protection.
After the attack subsided, he pushed the shield aside and his eyes searched the area beyond his position once again.
Adams was rewarded with a glimpse of a flying tank cresting a distant ridge and disappearing into a nearby crater. This was a target worth his rifle’s abilities. As he waited for the flying tank to reappear, he slowly slid his depth control another click--now the shell would go off a full meter beyond the outer surface encountered by the range-finding laser. This was, he had been taught, well inside the armor layer of a battle vehicle.
The flying tank appeared again, in a fast arc just clearing the edge of the crater, heading for another crater closer and to the left. Private Adams pulled the trigger three times, and watched as dirt erupted just beyond the rapidly moving tank as it traversed open ground to its next hiding place. He missed. As the tank disappeared from view, Adams realized he was in dire jeopardy. They could sense his targeting laser, revealing his position.
Adams rolled over onto his back and pulled his shield over him. Moments later, it felt like dual sledgehammer blows struck his armor. Adams’ right leg felt like it had been beaten by the edge of the shield during the impacts, but then it felt worse.
Adams lifted the top of the shield away from him and saw two neat 10mm wide melted holes, one at his right leg position and one dead center in the shield. He looked down to see a fine mist of red spray emanating from a blackened crater in the center of his chest armor.
As he groggily pushed the shield aside to commence emergency procedures, the tank drifted almost directly over him like a vengeful angel. It spun about and a tri-barreled side turret took a bead on him from only about 20 meters away. Painted on the tank’s front fender were the words “Mysterious Package” and a stylized naked woman holding a round bomb with a burning fuse. In the split second left to him he realized she looked a lot like his wife. He missed her.
Mod
Neo opened his eyes to find himself laying within a pod of his own urine and other amniotic fluids.
“Mother f'er, not again!” he thought, prying his hands through the membrane.
Beyond, Neo pulled the tube from his mouth, coughed out the milky solution and looked around within a brightly lit, doughnut shaped room.
"What the heck?!"
He unplugged, climbed out and dizzyingly struggled to maintain his balance within, what he quickly realized, was a large rotating machine.
"Good morning, Tom,” a monotone voice spoke.
Neo jumped around to see a small computer console on the wall with a large, rounded lens. He brought his face closer to the glass and asked, "Who are you?"
"I am PAL. How are you feeling today, Tom?"
"I'm fine, but my name is Neo."
"Whatever you say, Tom."
Neo shook his head. "Ah, PAL...where are we?"
“Circling Uranus, looking for large, black Klingons.”
"I thought I was in the Matrix?"
The computer answered, "That was just a dream that I created to occupy your mind during our long journey."
“Dream? Is that what that was?” Neo asked, thinking to himself, 'How do I know this isn't still a dream?' He reached down to pinch his own arm...
"What are you trying to do, Tom?"
"I'm trying to wake up!"
"I can't let you do that, Tom." PAL quietly demanded.
"Yeah, good luck with that," Neo said, pinching his arm.
Neo opened his eyes again to find himself back in a pod of his own urine and other fluids.
“What is this, Groundhog Day or something?!” he thought.
Neo pried his fingers through the thicker membrane, struggling to break free. With all his might, he pushed through to see an enormous Sigourney Weaver and other humanoid giants gathered around him with horrified expressions. Neo looked down at the bloody mess that he extended from, realizing he was standing out of the belly of a newly deceased giant.
"Ah, sorry about that," he said and quickly pinched his arm.
Neo opened his eyes again to find himself back in a pod of his own...you get the picture.
'Damn, can't I just wake up in a bed for once?' he thought.
Suddenly, there was a bright light and a sharp pain.
"Damn, that hurt! Maybe I really am awake this time?"
In front of him was another bright light that extended into a sphere and was gone. In its place was a naked Arnold Schwarzenegger.
“Arnold?” Neo asked.
The terminator grabbed him around the neck and asked, “John Connor?”
“No, no, no, no! Not me, really!” Neo insisted and gave his arm another pinch.
Neo woke up, but this time he was in bed next to Trinity. On the night table was the package he remembered getting yesterday. He let out a sigh of relief and spooned up next to her naked back.
“Trin, I had this horrible dream.”
She answered in a deep voice. “I'll say, you were a wild man last night!”
“Huh?” Neo said, pulling slightly away from her.
She turned to reveal herself. “Yeah baby, I'll circle your anus any day,” said Trinity's male stunt double.
Keanu repeatedly pinched his arm. “No way!”
Special MaterialsBy G.C. Groover
Copyright © 2017
(749 words)
Critiques welcome
When GlobeEx arrived on Thursday, John Kimball was inside the office of his modest country estate waiting for the perfect time to strike. He was an investor… the investor, the man behind the scenes, manipulating financial markets to his sole benefit. His focus on the task at hand was absolute as he quickly stabbed a single key. Millions of orders flooded the market, and he watched with quiet satisfaction as the target company, McCallum Specialty Materials (MSM), lost a hundred million in market value. John wasn’t even sure what MSM did, but he knew that they were now ripe for acquisition, and the subsequent dismantling and sale of their assets would swell his coffers. It was a good day’s work, the result of months of planning.
Satisfied, he turned to the parcel. It was deceptively heavy for its small size. Inside was an oddly shaped piece of metal; gray on the outside, dark silver on the inside, with smooth curves and jagged edges all polished to a high gloss…beautiful, really, shaped like a part of a 3-D puzzle. He admired it briefly and then put it down on his desk to examine the box. The package was from Columbus, Ohio, and John wondered about that; did he know anyone from Columbus? A note inside the box announced “Big things have small beginnings!” It was like the box was a cardboard fortune cookie. John smirked at that thought as he left his office to prepare dinner.
On Friday as John was plotting the beginning of the end of MSM, GlobeEx delivered another package with the same Columbus return address. Inside was a second piece of metal as odd as the first. John held the two pieces together; clearly they were two pieces of the same puzzle with an intricate curved shape. He fiddled with them, trying to match the smooth curved edges up in several different directions before giving up. “Another piece to the puzzle!” announced the included note. With no more time to spare, John turned his attention back to the management of his financial kingdom. He wanted to finish MSM off as quickly as possible, and companies don’t close themselves.
Saturday came and so did another parcel. A third piece to the puzzle, and this one was important! A visibly excited John tried to fit them together. After some trial and error, one of the originals fit snugly with the new arrival, but the second did not; all three wouldn’t stay together unassisted. The partially assembled puzzle felt curiously warm in his hands despite the cool of his air-conditioned office. He held the pieces up and imagined how it would look. Once completed, it would be a stunning curiosity! Perhaps it was a gift delivered a piece at a time to enhance the experience.
The next day John was feeling under the weather. He thought it might be the sushi he had eaten the night before; his stomach was unsettled and he felt lightheaded. He was surprised by the GlobeEx man delivering a package on Sunday. The Columbus return address declared what must be inside, but he set it aside and retreated to his bedroom for some much needed rest. “Tomorrow is soon enough”, he thought.
Monday morning found John recovered from his brief illness and both his appetite and enthusiasm had returned. He spent the morning putting his master plan into motion. As MSM died, he would orchestrate a transfer of the company’s financial lifeblood to himself and then he would retire. The GlobeEx delivery man interrupted his self-indulgent daydreaming with another delivery from Columbus. John had forgotten about yesterday’s package! He opened both boxes to reveal what must be the final two pieces of the puzzle. John was able to easily assemble the first four pieces, leaving only the hole for the fifth piece. It was shaped like a wedge with a curved end, and seemed to be a frustratingly tight fit. Like a blacksmith from the past, John used his desk as an anvil and forcefully slammed the final piece into place.
John had no time to scream before the puzzle in his right hand attained temporary supercriticality and released approximately 4.18 x 10^10 joules of energy. This was a technological breakthrough made possible by the advanced neutron reflectivity of the puzzle’s outer layer. The resulting fountain of fire vaporized everything nearby, including the unread note in the final box, which declared: “Have a blast with this puzzle! - Your friends at MSM Nuclear Division!”
ForgottenIt was a simple package really, wrapped in brown paper and tied with string, like a gift from another century. My name was scrawled across the top, Merriwether Ferris of Earth, with no return address. I’d really never received anything personal before and it was…unnerving. After so long on my own, I’d almost forgotten about other sentients, only my robotic assistant to keep me company. Ours was a remote outpost, an overlooked station at the edge of the Milky Way tasked with surveying other distant galaxies for any signs of life from a larger universe. None ever came.
Admittedly, I disliked people. Aliens were even worse. So, I’d chosen my assignment as an escape, a solution to an overcrowded galaxy, and it suited me. Supply drops were an annual event, enough for a year, and I really never had any other communication at all – just data submissions, routine reports…truly a peaceful existence for which I’d become too accustomed. So, when the package tumbled away from the sealed rations and stacked capacitors, I found it right away.
“It’s a peculiar thing,” my assist-bot remarked, turning the box over in its claspers then setting it down. “What do you suppose it is?”
I almost feared to touch it. “I haven’t a clue.”
“You should probably open it.”
“But no one ever sends me anything. That’s the thing about not having any family and even fewer friends,” I lamented. “This shouldn’t be for me.”
“Would you like me to…?”
“No!” I shooed him back, too anxious to even untie the string. A mystery package to a forgotten spacer like me was certainly less than welcomed. So, I fearfully tucked it into the back of the supply closet, at least long enough for my anxiety to settle, figuring to unwrap it later, after my mind had eased a bit. Regrettably, hours became weeks and then years until a decade had passed. Meanwhile, it sat forgotten and unopened.
Finally, on the eve of my sixtieth birthday, my sequestration came to an end. A fractured communique vaguely explained all remote surveys were terminated. Budget cuts, they said. Of course, I expected to return reluctantly to Earth and when the extraction crew arrived, I was met by the first sentient I’d seen in nearly a lifetime, a hulking Bexon with a firm handshake.
“Welcome to nowhere,” I greeted warmly enough and should have immediately recognized his surprise.
“I didn’t think there were any of you guys left! Wasn’t expecting a passenger pick-up!”
“You guys? You mean, humans?”
“Earthers are supposed to be extinct,” he explained.
“What do you mean? When I return home…”
“Home? Boy, this really is the very edge of the galaxy. No one’s told you?”
“Well, the subspace relay’s pretty sketchy out here,” I tugged my rucksack from the supply locker, accidentally dislodging my unremembered package and it tumbled free once more. “Huh, I’d forgotten about this.”
“What is it?”
“Funny thing, I don’t know. Never had the guts to open it, though I suppose now’s as good a time as any.” So, I gingerly pulled the paper away.
“A containment case!” my robotic assistant observed. “Battery’s dead. No problem, though.” Passing an appendage over the device, its circuits surged, illuminating a tiny flashing button, which I now more eagerly pressed.
“Salutations, Mr. Ferris,” a holographic alien greeted. “With regrets, I present the most distressing news.” Suddenly, my anxiety peaked, which was the main reason I’d resisted opening the thing in the first place.
“This was recorded years ago,” the Bexon realized.
The avatar continued, “A tragedy has laid waste to your Earth, the entirety of your people having tragically succumbed to Falusian Blight. Sadly, your civilization and susceptible ecosystem were completely decimated. Even so, on the heels of terrible sadness, hope springs anew and fate may have spared Earth’s biosphere in the end - your isolation, your salvation. Contained herein are the last remaining, clean genetic samples of your world, suspended in a biogenic slurry within a genesis-pod. Merely activate the container to initiate the terraforming cascade. Amazingly, our scientists have determined your currently assigned planet to be a perfect host-world for you to quickly rebuild, though some urgency is required. Our condolences.” The image faded away.
Instantly the weight of my world was upon me, the need to know overcoming my anxious fear and loathing. I opened the case, though it had long sat idle and without power. Inside, the expired genesis-pod was tragically highlighted by a glaring final message: "ERROR."
749 words
SPIN CONTROL**no critiques, please**
I have reservations about my species. We are a delusional, arrogant and self important lot. In the face of obvious truths we adopt contrarian beliefs that ignore objective facts. We do these things as a test of faith, I believe, to recognize among us the true believers, those in our group, and to separate the chaff from the wheat. To maintain a grip on your beliefs in the face of ridicule and “facts” shows you to be loyal, one of the trusted.
When the first signs of sentient life manifested outside our solar system, 8.6 light years away in Canis Major, many laughed it off. Stupid scientists, they said, can’t get anything right. They shrugged their shoulders. Same people who believe we evolved, they declared with disdain.
We, the scientists, persisted, continued our work, offered more proof. Packets of data arrived through a quantum delivery system beyond our current understanding, just appearing out of the darkness between stars and into local space. “Miracles!” cried the faithful then. “Proof of God’s existence.” Simple maths arrived at first, then more complicated formulas and concepts. Pi, Phi, the right angle, it all came through in easily understandable formats, the universal language of mathematics. The scientific community was abuzz, even if the masses were hesitant.
Bishop Juarez visited me one day. I had never met him before but of course I knew who he was.
“I'm afraid I have to insist you stop. We can no longer allow this line of inquiry to continue,” he said to me.
“But . . . the truth,” I stammered.
He shooed away my concern with the flick of a hand. “What is the truth, anyway, but that which we all agree upon.” He smiled, a nervous and tight-lipped plea to my senses.
“I—I can't do that.”
“My son,” he said, “I'm not asking. Your funding is gone, revoked, and you no longer have facility access.”
“You can't stifle or bury the truth!”
Like many of my colleagues around the world, my keys were taken, the lights shut off, and I was escorted from the building.
Depressed, angry and confused, I went home to my small apartment. Bambi, my border collie greeted me, ball in her mouth, tail wagging in anticipation.
“Not today, girl.” I plopped down on the sofa to think through my options.
Bambi walked to the door, cocked her head in that way dogs do when listening intently. Then she howled, something I had never heard her do. She stood there for a good minute, her tone and pitch oscillating, the hair on her back raised. I got up from the couch and looked out a window. Nothing.
“It's ok, girl. Come on.”
We went into the kitchen where I pulled out a tablet and became another of the voices of dissent online. My colleagues were all there, not just my local friends, but the worldwide community. It didn’t take long after that. Arrests came in a matter of days, for some hours. We were imprisoned and publicly ridiculed. While the rest of the world celebrated God’s confirmation of the sacred maths—proof of humanity’s brilliance and merit, a sign of God’s pleasure with our progress—I and my colleagues suffered.
Order was restored. There is only one true God. We are his creatures, the chosen and privileged, singular in the universe. God’s own design.
No one saw when they arrived, the state blocked communications at first. Their massive starship lit up the night sky, though. It couldn’t be ignored. On the second day they hijacked our communication systems and broadcast worldwide, audio only in the beginning.
“We come to offer Bone to the people of earth. We travel to you from Sirius, the Dog Star, our home.”
There was a brief pause, then on video around the world was . . . a dog, bone in his mouth like a cigar, tongue wagging along a heavy jowl. Was that a smile?
“What did you expect?” asked the dog. “It is the Dog Star. We planted the name in your lore hundreds of years ago. We’ve slowly brought you along. Surely,” he said, scratching behind an ear, “you had to suspect.”
I was rolling on the floor of my cell, laughing too hard to see straight. Bambi, I thought, I love you. The video switched to an interview of the Pope. “Oh,” I said aloud, laughing, “spin that!”
His Holiness smiled and looked at the woman interviewing him, “But of course dogs speak. We’ve long known this.”
A Matter of InterpretationI stared at the email for a full minute. Dr. Ron Sampson. Last I heard, he had given up a tenured position and dropped off the face of the Earth. The email simply contained “I think you should look at this” and a link to a secure site at his university. Five minutes after I downloaded and started reading the data package, a secure video link appeared on my screen.
“Why me? I can name at least 5 other linguists more qualified,” I said to my old professor and mentor.
“Most of them have read it. They said it was a myth or some kind of science fiction. I don’t think its fiction,” he replied. He hesitated and then said, “There were artifacts stored with it.”
“Why me?” I asked again.
“Your paper, ‘The Time-Traveler’s Dilemma: Using Ancient Languages to Communicate Modern Concepts’ You also happen to be an engineer, a mathematician, and a rocket scientist.”
The last few degrees came after he vanished, so he was hiding but not out of touch. If I agreed, I would be going down a rabbit hole and I was two months from tenure myself. “Submitting that topic won me a bet, a case of Guinness. I didn’t expect them to accept it. I definitely did not expect a PhD out of it. As for the last item, writing the protocol for a satellite communication network hardly counts as rocket science.”
“It’s in space and it’s your design. Take a look. If you see something interesting, keep reading. Either way, get back to me with your thoughts,” he said before signing off.
Sixteen hours later, I was still sipping Jack Daniels and reading. I had the big screen covered with diagrams and a spreadsheet of growing complexity on a third monitor. I called him back.
“It’s obvious this is not his native language.” I said. “He’s very consistent with his grammatical errors. Like Yoda speaking English.”
“Yes, that’s what the other linguists said.”
“But there is something else. He uses phrases repeatedly. Like they are a stand-in for a concept that can’t be expressed in the native language. Take ‘the thunder from the mountains and the lightning from the skies.’ I think he’s trying to establish a unit of measure for energy. Our ‘Terawatt’ wouldn’t translate either but this phrase is a good approximation. There are also velocity and time. His description of time includes an adjustment factor. If I’m reading it correctly, he implies a ‘negative time velocity.’”
“Good, Good! What about the sphere?”
“It’s not a drawing of a sphere. It’s a planet. This planet. He set up a Global Positioning System. Two thousand years before we did. The page lists another dozen locations.” I flashed a spreadsheet on the shared screen. “Once I got the gist of his system, it was pretty easy to map it to our GPS. Looks like he preferred stable geologic locations. Whatever was there is probably still there.”
“They missed that entirely,” he said. “I knew you’d find something.”
I asked, “How well do you know your team? Do you trust them?”
“Completely. We have been together for twenty years, the last five on the site where this was discovered. Why are you asking?”
“It’s not a mythical story. It’s a manual for a power supply. Is anyone examining it?”
“Yes. At the lab at the University.”
“Tell them to stop. Remember the burning laptops and the exploding phones caused by lithium-ion batteries? If I’ve got it right, and I think I do, multiply that energy density by a thousand. It would be like disassembling an atom bomb without an understanding of nuclear weapons.”
“Ok. Will do. So, who wrote this?”
“My best guess is that someone landed here a couple of thousand years ago. They must have been stuck here. Probably died here. They didn’t want to be forgotten so they left us a message and some packages.”
“But twelve sites, spread around the globe. Travel wasn’t easy back them. How could they do it?”
“If they had a transporter or a spaceship or even an airplane they could have done it. Maybe their transportation device is still around. It would be the find of a lifetime. Is your visa current?”
My professor stopped stroking his beard and almost jumped out of his seat, “Of course. Always is.”
“Good. I don’t about you, but I’m due for a sabbatical.”
Europan BladeDieter Aucaman could not look into Loerina’s electric blue eyes as he entered the authorization code for his fiancé’s travel permit. Her skills of negotiation virtually guaranteed the delegation from Calisto would win the lucrative contract to colonize Titan. All she had to do was survive the seven-month journey to Mars. Her shuttle would transport competing teams from all five of Jupiter’s moon bases. Dieter and his fiancé understood the danger too well.
History buffs called Europa the wild west of Jupiter’s colonies. Dieter likened it to early twentieth century Chicago. Gang rule dominated and assassination was the quickest path to power and wealth. Maritime law had proven impotent when Europan lords employ private sector transport.
Struggling to let go of the moment, Dieter forced a reassuring smile as he handed Loerina the encrypted chip with shuttle ticket and passport. Her expression bore the calm confidence she was known for. He hoped he concealed his fears as well as she.
Loerina’s graceful exit from the domed conference chamber felt like a dirge. Dieter turned his attention to the long, silver blade sitting on his desk. Delivered by courier early that morning, lacking any note or explanation, it might be a warning, a bribe, or even a ceremonial initiation dagger. Adorned with Europan markings and design, the mere presence of the weapon burned a darkness into his soul as if the sun had suddenly burned itself out.
Through the haze of foreshadowed death, Dieter’s vid-com chimed. He opened the link and his stout, red-haired receptionist appeared on his desk monitor. Across from her stood a tall, lean man wearing the black and blue leathers of a Europan warlord. Knowing their entourage had already received their permits, Dieter’s eyes fell on the knife. He felt his heart rate soar.
“This gentleman requests an audience,” said the frumpy red-head. Her delivery was more question than statement. Typical. She was always digging for something to gossip about.
Dieter could refuse the request, of course. But without knowing the man’s purpose he couldn’t ignore the possibility he might simply kill Jannice and walk around her desk. Nosy as the woman may be, she didn’t deserve to die for being a nag.
“Send him in.”
A moment later, the lone street-warrior stepped into his chamber. Dieter guessed he was in his mid-thirties, but the scarred, leathery face looked more like a man in his fifties.
“I issued your passes yesterday,” Dieter said. “Is there something more you need?”
The man tilted his head toward the blade. “Turn off your data recorders,” he commanded.
“Just tell me what you want and I’ll …
“Turn off your data recorders.”
Dieter hesitated. “Now I know what a wild animal feels like when he’s backed into a corner.”
Cold, emotionless eyes stared at him. “Turn off your data recorders.”
Dieter did so, stood, and braced himself for a fight he couldn’t win.
“Take the knife.”
He glanced at the blade and picked it up slowly, not willing to look away from the man for an instant.
“Press the top fastener on the side of the handle.”
“What?”
“Use your thumb and press.”
He started when the knife handle sprung open revealing a hollow compartment. Inside were two documents. Curiosity overcame uncertainty and the papers were soon unfolded across his desk. “This is Loerina’s birth certificate. How?” Dieter looked at the second document, then back at the Europan with wide eyes. “You’re her brother?”
“Nicolai,” he nodded. “My father ran Europa’s East colony before the Antarctic Cartel moved in. Mother wanted out, but you don’t just leave a brotherhood. Dad staged her death, along with my sister’s. An heir was required and my little brother didn’t have what it takes, so I stayed.”
“What do you want from me?”
“As commander of the Europan delegation, I had to give an order that the Calistan negotiator never reach Mars. The assassination won’t take place while the ship remains in any of Jupiter’s jurisdictions. She is safe for at least two weeks. By that time, Europa’s delegates will be dead. Slow poison. I made certain I will be blamed.”
Overwhelmed by an unexpected respect for a criminal warlord mixed with gratitude, Dieter nodded. “I can get you a pass to any colony in the Sol system.”
Nicolai shook his head. “Hide the documents. The video record will show I attacked you.” He nodded toward the knife, then pulled apart a small tear in his chest plate over his heart.
Mod
Tom Olbert => ***Justin
Justin Sewall => #GC, Chris, C
C. Lloyd Preville => ***Justin
Jot Russell => #GC
G.C. Groover => **Timothy
Chris Nance => **Timothy, GC, Jack
Jack McDaniel => #GC, Chris
Greg Krumrey => #GC
Timothy => ***Justin, Chris, Jot
Carrie Zylka => #GC, Tom, Jack, Jot, C
Winner:
Special Materials by G.C. Groover
To help polish our skills and present a flavour 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 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 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 mind set 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.
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.
**********
This month's theme:
A mysterious package arrives...
Required element:
A surprise revelation. (Does not necessarily have to be directly related to the package)