Science Fiction Microstory Contest discussion
***FEBRUARY 2022 SCIENCE FICTION MICROSTORY CONTEST (Stories Only)***
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SEEDSDelta IV mining tunnels –
A deafening explosion. Kurt Buhler cried out as darkness closed in around him. He couldn’t hear his voice. Slowly, as his deafness faded, he could hear his own breathing. And, nothing else. He couldn’t see. Pitch blackness. “Dad?” Nothing. He tried backing up, but could go no further than the mouth of the tunnel. A tunnel just the right size for a ten-year-old boy like him to crawl through. Only stone at the entrance now. The main tunnel had collapsed, he realized. “Dad!” Nothing. He clenched his eyes, hoping it was a dream. It wasn’t. He began to cry. Stop it! Remember what Dad said. Keep your head. He felt cool air on his face. He crawled towards it.
Ten years later…
The rocky gray surface of the asteroid hurtled towards the viewport. Kurt Buhler’s heart raced as his cyberlinked brain reconfigured the approach vector, the suped-up star-freighter swerving. The g-force rippled across Kurt’s face as he completed the turn, narrowly missing the rocky little worldlet as the Terran pursuit fighter crashed into it with a thundering explosion.
“Wew!!!” He shouted, the sweat streaming down his face, his heart pounding, his blood coursing like a twisting slip stream current. “Damn, that was wild!” he shouted, dizzy with exhilaration.
“Stay focused, K,” Lyla McShea, his captain chastised as she recalculated the course through the Deltan asteroid belt through her cyber-link, sweat beading on her dark skin, her green eyes focused on the instruments. “Lay in the new course while I take the forward PB’s. Karen, Markus…” she said through her intraship com-link. “Fore and aft turrets on standby. We’ve got a Terran battle cruiser closing fast…confirm.”
“Confirmed,” both flank gunners replied, almost in unison.
Kurt glanced up, shaken by the sight of the enemy cruiser launching intercept fighters against the back-drop of multiple asteroids. “Here they come.”
“I see them,” McShea replied, her eyes on the targeting sensors. “Flank gunners…fire at will!” She opened fire, the forward particle beam cannon rupturing the cruiser’s engine pods, orange explosions raging in the cold black vacuum of space.
“Go, Cap…go!” he shouted, his blood burning as laser bursts shook the ship to its bearings, instrument panels exploding.
“Keep your mind on the course, pilot!” McShea shouted, fragments of the splintering Terran ship hurtling towards them.
Kurt pulled up, the exploding remains of the cruiser’s main section narrowly clearing the ship’s keel. He rolled his eyes, a cold wave shuddering through him. He exhaled in gratitude as they cleared the asteroid field, the pale blue horizon of Delta IV appearing in the viewport. His heart leapt. “We made it!” he shouted, howling and shaking his fist.
“Settle down,” McShea ordered, visibly trying to contain her own enthusiasm. “We still have a delivery to make. Raise atmo shields. We’re going in.”
#
The rebel colonists cheered wildly as the cargo canisters were opened, revealing the bio-engineered seeds within. Seeds that might one day make the barren surface of Delta IV as lush and green as Earth was ages ago.
Kurt stared at the open bins they’d shipped through the Terran blockade and reflected darkly. “How many of our pilots died running the blockade?” he asked, under his breath. “For seeds?”
“For freedom, pilot,” Capt. McShea said, beside him. “You’d rather those bins contained weapons? Seeds are food. Food our people can grow for themselves…no longer dependent on the synthetic foodstuffs the Terrans ship to us from Earth in exchange for our mining their damned ore. Look at me.” He turned. “Freedom is worth dying for. Revenge isn’t.”
20 years later…
Kurt Buhler, ambassador to Earth repressed a smirk as the Terran Council representative wrinkled his face in disgust, reading the Deltan Charter.
“Government by democratic vote and constitutional law. Basic human rights.” He handed Kurt the computer pad, shaking his head and snickering. “Tried and failed on Earth many times. The Roman Republic. The United States. The Euro-Asian Alliance. Pipedreams littering the road of history. The Terran Empire has maintained peace and order for a thousand years.”
“And, contributed what?” Kurt asked softly with a smile.
The other man looked puzzled. “I said…”
“Peace and order. Those things come with death. Life is filled with pain and risk. And yes, failure. But, each failure is a seed from which wisdom grows. And, each attempt is an affirmation of the human capacity to improve. The Council’s waiting. Shall we go?”
He thought of his father, and saw him smiling.
CROSS-TIME ANGELSFlash Fiction by Thaddeus Howze
4:27 AM. I am.
I adjust. Consciousness is hard won.
Bolt of lightning, obsessions erased, pushing through the mind of my host and surrounded by altered history, I remember.
I am at the beginning of the Interregnum. A time of constant outbreaks, terrible disease ravages humanity worldwide. Sick.
The insertion wasn't far back enough. This host is already gravely infected. The date. A smartwatch. June 30, 2020. The best we could do. I lie awake aware of their future. The death tolls will be staggering.
They will be coming. They have to know I'm here.
I cast about. My awareness flashes a fragment of my Will. Everyone is sick within a kilometer. And of those who are not... This one will have to do. Hard to get up. Fevered. Head pounding. Dizzy.
There is a computer, if you can call it that. It will have to do. Checking the historical database. No historical databases. Too far back. Worldmind is gone. Hasn't been invented yet. All they have is...
Wikipedia.
It will have to do.No Spanish Flu? No influenza outbreak? They've somehow changed the Stream. Forced a reality without the influence of the pandemic into our reality. Worse contagions would strike, we are more unprepared, diseases undermine the social fabric. Their Crosstime efforts have born fruit.
I drop the Code. A temporal marker allowing us to try again. We need a foothold. The Bureau is already here. Shouting. Then shots. My instinct is to help. In this moment of change, of upheaval, I am forbidden. To me, this is ancient history. A timeline thought lost. A past unreachable.
Insertion into an era without time travel was impossible. Until the Cross-time Paradox was discovered. Vision blurring. Sicker than I thought. The Code flies preprogrammed from my sweaty fingertips. The alien Temporal Bureau forbids any direct interference. Except when they do it. They move through Cross-time, seeding parallels, reaching back until all futures lead to them being inexorably in power over all of reality.
The burn team is done with the next block. Type faster. Earlier code fragments coalesce, the efforts of earlier agents.
They're outside. They know I'm here. Finished.
The Seed is planted.
Trembling. This body is done. I prepare for transit. The power is cut at 5:13 AM.
I can feel their Wills probing mine trying to read what I've done.
The information is already sent. I can see the city burning, fire light streaming through the window. A hungry cat mews pitifully. Staggering to the back of the house, I open a window and toss it out. It doesn't seem all that grateful. The burn team doesn't talk. Doesn't negotiate. They didn't know how, only where. They drove me here, pushed me through Crosstime to come out here.
To prevent delivery.
I hear their inhuman screams as they realize what I've done. They can feel the ripples. With the neighborhood fully aflame, they burn my house last. Then they too stride purposefully into the fire leaving no trace of their tampering. These men will die tragically, consumed by the flames they set.
The Bureau will continue the chase.
I go where they send me. This past is corrupted. It is a place of constant loss; of hopeless horror? A time of flame and pogram dressed as religion; people trapped in their homes, in an effort to stop a perfect contagion? I have to go further back. To a point where we make better choices. Where we learn from our mistakes.
I have to kill millions to save tens of billions.
In my time, autocratic leadership is all we know. Pandemic was the key. Why did 1918 fail to galvanize a response? What happened? Why did we abandon the research for this plague? Because it hasn't happened. Didn't happen in more realities than it did. Thanks to their inhuman meddling. They want a future without us.
As I watch them come through the door, they see me already burning.
They sit amid the ruins and try to follow me into the Crosstime streams. As their hosts awaken, my last bit of awareness is of their screams of terror as they realize where they were. My host sighs in relief. The Bureau cares nothing for their hosts. Only their supremacy of all of our related realities.
I will reach the correct 1918, and ensure the holy Propagation. The Code lights my way. They cannot follow me.
Yet.
Mod
©2022 by Jot Russell
Susan woke up suddenly from the thunderclap, somehow reliving the faint recognition of a dream; half broken pieces loosely sowed within a memory. The lucent aspects of daily life took over and Susan gave thanks for the fading details of a strange and disturbing nightmare.
Sitting up, she let out a deep breath, trying to cast out the negative energy. She got out of bed, holding together her buttonless pajamas in a protective manner before making it to the shower. The newspaper provided further distraction during a light breakfast, but the stillness of traffic caused the images to flash within her mind. She shook it off, exited the highway in favor of the local roads, oddly smiling at the falling rain.
**
"Don't you love the rain?" asked her coworker, Amy.
"I do, but I don't remember liking it this much before," Susan replied.
"A good storm always gives me crazy dreams," said Amy.
"Yeah, maybe that's why."
"Why what?" Amy asked.
Susan looked her into her eyes. "I had this wild dream last night."
Amy smiled. "Tell me about it. I woke up this morning feeling like I had sex, but I can't remember with who."
"Or what," Susan whispered.
**
The passage was dark and damp, but somehow familiar. She knew not when she had seen this place, but she knew that she had. Feeling uneasy, she tried to control her breathing by drawing in slowly through her nose. The recognition of the smell sent a jolt of fear through her spine, and she halted. Looking back-and-forth, she cowered in a corner, hoping her presence would go unknown. This was not to be the case, for there was only her and him.
The monster, as she would describe it, approached slowly from her left. She let out a scream and ran blindly away. The creature was faster, jumping in front and blocking her path. She tried to run the other way, but was tripped by one of its elongated arms that was covered with muscular lumps and strange markings.
Frightened, she slowly turned her head around and looked into the eyes that sought her. Somehow beautiful and inviting, she found herself following the silent commands that they made. Rolling herself over to face him, the creature slid a long finger across her cheek and down to her shirt. She could barely feel the button threads being so delicately severed. Again, the eyes spoke in words she knew not, but listened to just the same. Obeying, she pulled her shirt open to reveal the softly swelled flesh of her bosom. He kept his gaze, providing one last command. She hesitated at first, but her juices erupted within and she found herself helplessly lifting her legs to push the pants down off her bottom and up over her knees. Slowly, he lowered his lips upon hers.
**
Susan woke in a state of panic, finding herself alone and mostly naked in her bed. "What the hell?!"
She pulled the pajama shirt back around to cover herself as if the world were watching. The dream's memory was fading, but her belief caused some parts to persist. She looked beside to see a couple of the fallen buttons, trying to picture the finger that had cut them loose.
She violently shook her head. "No, I must have torn them off in my dream."
**
The storm past and with it, a fresh feeling of a new day and the desire not to be alone. She finially agreed to a date with a coworker who had asked her months back, and found herself taking him, afterwards, to her house.
**
The hospital in Maine was overwhelmed with birthing mothers, and they blamed it on the full-moon storm. The sea raged against the cliffs, as if Mother Earth groaned in pain of delivery.
Susan pushed, accepting the torment, with her happy husband by her side. As he watched, the doctor made a disturbed expression, with the knuckled head now exposed. Susan moaned in relief at the baby's discharge, but father only watched the doctor's face turn to one of panic. He raised the child. The sight restored Susan's full memory of the dream, and she screamed. Hers, with countless others, echoed in agony throughout the hospital.
Moon Taxi ©2022 Kalifer DeilIt was eight o'clock on a Saturday night. I was, holding the bag, all drivers were out on jobs. Hail was pelting the Moon Conveyor number 3, the only fit to run buggies left at the stand. A panel lit up, “Pickup at LunaGrove Bar.” I sure as hell didn't want to go there, I'm in New York and that is a two-hour trip at top speed. This weather is going to add another half-hour. just getting in and out of New York. My fear of Lightning didn't help. In two months we would be allowed to let these buggies run by themselves. The other drivers have been fighting this but I don't care. I'd rather sit at home and take DWC (Displaced Worker Compensation). I climbed aboard, pushed the GO button, and flicked on MeTube, and ShowFlix to pass the time.
I arrived without incident and I could see her waiting impatiently through the transparent airlock. No problems, Hooked up and swoosh, she was in. I didn't realize that my air pressure was that much lower than the airlock. All I could see was hair. She finally settled in and glared at me like it was my fault.
“What's your choice? Back to New York!” I could see her reflection in the console, a pretty thing.
“Frisco!”
“You mean San Francisco,” I countered, “They don't like their city called Frisco!”
“I was born there, I can damn well call it anything I want to!”
“Your father was born in LA!”
“How could you know that? I haven't given you my cred yet!”
“I'll need that and your passport.”
“What the fuck? Passport to where?”
“California is no longer in the Union. Where have you been hiding?”
“Come on, stop messing with me!”
“It is what it is madam. I'll take you to SF immigration. You can straighten things out with them.”
“Damn, how did you know my occupation? Damn, I'm screwed. They will detain me.
“Miss, you really have been out of the loop. The reason California left the states was the USA's crackdown on prostitutes. I didn't know your profession. I call any woman over 30 madam.”
“Sorry, what if I go back to NewYork?”
“No problem, You can stay at my place. I have a penthouse in downtown Manhattan.”
“Hey, I charge $500 a night if you think you are going to get anything.”
“That's an interesting coincidence. “I charge $500 a day for sharing my penthouse.”
“Deal!”
I know this relationship is not going to last very long. She'll find out in a couple of days that California is still in the USA but damn she is beautiful. She melted in my arms and her perfume intoxicated me. I was lost. I pushed the unavailable button on the dash.
WHITE NOISEJack McDaniel
When the white noise is gone and the universe is a dearth of information, the only possible explanation is that Telen finally went too far and fucked up for real. Fear is an actual thing then and something to take seriously. Or not. It’s not like this is the first time he’s ever slipped over the edge.
“Suit! What happened?”
Silence. My ears are ringing, which I believe is my body’s way of filling in the blanks due to the lack of white noise. Nothing. Just tiny dots of far-off light. I assume they’re stars. My HUD is down. I can breathe, a good sign, but who knows how long it will last. I could be running on fumes of the oxygen that lined my suit.
I have a massive headache, one of those that starts at the base of the neck. Of course I have a headache—because floating in deep space in a dead suit should be stressful. So, why am I at ease? And why can’t I remember anything about what happened?
Based upon the stars rotating like they’re in a blender, I feel like I’m in motion, but, you know, space. It could be the stars that are circling the drain. Anything is possible with Telen.
The thrusters along my wrists can be activated manually, if I remember my training properly. Ah, yes, there we are, a little right-hand, left-hand action and we have stasis, but that’s not really a given. I could just be in rotation with the universe and heading down the drain with it.
Static.
“Suit?”
Something garbled. “Repeat: sorry, had to do a full reboot, I think.”
“You think?”
“Can’t say for certain, but I believe so. In cases of extreme duress and malfunction I am programmed to reboot. But that is a rare occurrence, more hypothetical than real.”
“Welcome to the hypothetical. Where are we?”
“Deep space.”
“No kidding. Got anything other than sarcasm?”
“I am just answering your question to the best of my knowledge. I could guess, but the probability of my being correct is minimal.”
“Fine. Then where were we? I can’t remember anything.”
“Scanning the logs now but you won’t like my answer.”
“Tell me.”
“The eleven minutes before my reboot are missing. Before that we were at warp and heading toward Gilese.”
“So, we’re somewhere between earth and Gilese, that’s a start.”
“Not really, folding spacetime doesn’t work that way. Didn’t you pay attention in school?”
“No. Did Telen deliver a big surprise?”
“He did. He had proof that the universe is just information. Ones and zeros at the root level. And—”
“And?”
“This is only conjecture—he turned off the universe, briefly.”
“More sarcasm, great.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“You can’t turn off the universe.”
“Correct. But Telen can—and did. I believe for eleven minutes.”
“How?”
“Your mind is baffling. If I knew how he did it then I would know how to do it.”
“Yeah. Let’s get a move on.”
“To where?”
“The nearest star.”
“Only one of us will survive.”
“Why?”
“Warp drive is erratic. I’m working on repairs but right now it would be stop and go.”
“Stuttering through space? Great.”
“You would arrive in liquid form, which is fine by me, but you couldn’t be reconstituted.”
“Yeah, nix that idea. When we get back, I’m going to kill him. I’m seriously going to rip him apart one molecule at a time.”
“There is a document in my logs. It’s from Telen. Message reads: It had to be you. Anyone nearby when I hit the off switch was going to be jettisoned. The initial action creates a local mechanical gravity wave that dies out quickly, which is weird, I know. It also creates an electromagnetic wave as the system shuts down from that point and spreads across the universe. The wave is anchored in the infinite so it turns everything off at once, bypassing c. The universe re-sets and spins back up, kind of like a computer. I figured out the ‘transporter’. Hurry back. Is that a Star Trek reference?”
“Oh, Christ! Suit, check your warp protocols.”
“I don’t— This is insane! Drop the containment field as we enter warp! We’ll be crushed! And neither of us can handle the infinite.”
“You’re wrong, suit. We’ll become data. I’m certain he has some way of detecting us in sub-space, and reconstituting us back in the real.”
“That’s it! When we get back I’m going to kill him, atom by atom.”
Working in Vein0215123.0900 “This is KFX, transmitting at 2.185GHz. The Best Radio Station on the planet because we’re the only station on the planet. Thanks for tuning in.
Today, it is going to be cold, as in Frozen Methane cold, so don’t forget those environment suits if you head outside the dome.
Congratulations this week go to the miners working the Alpha site. Their production is almost 7% of the next runner up. They’ll be enjoying their bonus as well as premium replicator rations.
The supply ship should be arriving by the end of the week, so, if you’ve been waiting for the delivery from Earth, it’ll be here in a just a few days.
Hang in there – the weekend is just 7 days away!
0215133.0900 “This is KFX, transmitting at 2.185GHz. The Best Radio Station on the planet because we’re the only station on the planet. Thanks for tuning in.
Hope you had a good weekend, for those on shift A. Those three days go by so fast. Alpha team is off to a good start but Gamma took delivery on some new equipment and is making up for lost time by tunneling in a new direction.
0215135.1300 “This is KFX, transmitting at 2.185GHz. The Best Radio Station on the planet because we’re the only station on the planet. Thanks for tuning in.
Team Gamma is out of the running due to an unexpected seismic event. Alpha is out in front, for now, but they haven’t been pacing themselves and are battling through the expected equipment failures while Beta keeps posting the same respectable numbers.
0215137.0726 “Special Alert: Production targets have been suspended and all available personnel are to report to Gamma site to join the rescue effort. Maps of the affected shafts are being forwarded to your comms.”
0215137.1232 “Special Alert: Seismic Activity Alert. Please exit all mining areas. Upon exit, register with the mining authority for your search and rescue assignment. Currently, there are 237 missing personnel. Let’s get that number down folks.”
0215139.1431 “Special Alert: All personnel are to report to Alpha Base. Preparations are underway for full planetary evacuation. The limit of 10 kilos of personal effects will be enforced.”
0215199.1648 “This is KFX, on automatic beacon, transmitting at 2.185GHz. If you are receiving this signal from orbit, do not attempt to land.”
--
Two men laughed and drank Vodka in an abandoned cafeteria.
“I can’t believe you stole an entire planet just using a transmitter! When you told me about your plan, I thought you were suffering from Dilithium exposure. I never thought you’d actually pull it off,” say Joe, older of the two miners.
“Well, you inspired me when you told your ‘monsters in the cave’ story you tell to the new miners,” said Harry, taking another swig.
“How did you make 237 people just disappear?”
“Holographic projection. The cave-in was just smoke and mirrors. I re-routed their coms through a dummy relay and mixing in distortion to make it seem they were deeper than they were. When they were ‘found,’ everyone was so elated, they didn’t notice the modifications.
“What about the earthquakes?”
“The first few were just lucky accidents. After that, I took the seismographs offline and fed them data so they’d show what I wanted them to show.”
--
Joe sat in the cabin of the core driller, reading the documentation for the new machine and watching Harry through the windshield.
Harry stood a dozen yards away, scanning for the formation that he predicted, that the other miners almost found, that was the reason for the ruse. He found it. According to the charts, it was just meters from the first quake. He fired the cannon and crystals rained down on the floor of the cave.
This was too easy he thought. He half-listened to Joe as he walked closer to analyze the falling debris.
“I still don’t get how you get a rumor about the monsters to spread so rapidly without even mentioning it on the air.”
“What rumor?” asked Harry. The crystals continued falling, now faster. The vein was disintegrating - something else was happening.
“There must have been a dozen reports. What got me was how consistent they were. Almost like they were rehearsed.”
Harry scanned again. The vein was still there but there was something new: movement within the vein. More crystals fell and a single claw appeared then an appendage, widening the hole as it strained to break free.
This Old House“Just sign here,” the man said, wrinkled, shaky fingers handing over the pen. He pressed the documents firmly onto the hood of his car to keep the edges down in the wind.
Emerson Brock scratched his signature. “So this is it, then?”
“It’s all yours,” he handed Emerson the key, then latched his briefcase. “Good luck, Mr. Brock.” The man tipped his hat then drove steadily away down the forgotten road.
Elsa brushed her windblown hair away. “It’s not much to look at.”
“Well, no one’s lived here for years.” Emerson started up the long dirt driveway toward the house, a lonely Victorian overlooking twenty acres of golden prairie.
Part of the steeply pitched roof had succumb to time and the faded clapboards were loose in places. The porch creaked with the first step, so Emerson tested the boards just to make sure they could support him. Satisfied enough, he crossed the porch and inserted the key, the door creaking open. Inside, he found a single letter on the floor, likely dropped through the mail slot years ago. It left a clean spot, when he lifted it. The front said ‘Marianne.’ “My mom’s name,” he realized as the house whistled, drafty windows driving the odors of age and mildew.
Elsa ran her fingers across the sofa table, picking up a layer of dust before brushing it away. Every bit of the old furniture was still there, untouched as if they had simply just walked away. “You lived here?” She found a frame on the mantle and wiped the glass to reveal a happy family. “So what happened?”
“My dad just left. Didn’t say a word. Our whole life changed.” Emerson took the frame, running nostalgic fingertips over the image before setting it down carefully. “It hit my mom hard. I mean, my dad was brilliant, way beyond his engineering job at the mine. She never recovered. The bank eventually took the house and, when the mine went dry, so did the town.”
“So, why buy it back?”
“I still grew up here,” he said. “And I got it for pennies.”
She patted a pillow and a plume burst into the air. “I can see why.”
Emerson ran the envelope between his thumb and forefinger, distracted, a deluge of memories flooding back.
“Are you going to open it?”
“What?”
“The envelope.”
“Right. He ripped it open and his eyes went wide. “It’s…it’s from my dad.”
“Well?”
He began, “’Marianne, I know you’ll find this hard to understand, and hope you’ll forgive me. I pray I haven’t lost too much time. Please, head down to the cellar.’”
“Found it.” Elsa was there, descending the staircase with only the light on her phone.
“This is ridiculous.”
“C’mon, keep reading,” she urged.
He rolled his eyes but continued, “’You’ll find an old mirror that’s not a mirror at all.’ What the heck does that mean?”
Elsa pulled a sheet away. “This, I bet.”
“’On the side, there’s a keypad. Type the code 031793.’” Emerson paused. “My birthday.” Then, he read the last line. “’Hope to see you soon.’"
Elsa punched the numbers and their reflection instantly changed to a swirling tempest. Then, without warning, a figure burst through, landing hard on the floor. Frank Brock rolled onto his back.
“Dad?”
“Emerson?”
Emerson leaned in. His father hadn’t aged a day. “Where…where’ve you been?”
“1925,” he replied plainly. “It’s been months. Thank God that letter was delivered as instructed.” He ran his hand along his son’s adult face. “A bit late, I see. Oh, Emerson.”
“Seventeen years.”
“Sevent...” his response faded as his mind raced. “And your mother?”
“She’s okay,” Emerson stepped away, suddenly confused and angry. “Dad, what happened?”
“I’d been working the calculations for years, kind of a hobby,” he said. “Time travel requires a tremendous amount of quantum energy, but I finally cracked it. Problem was, the former owners of this house were scared to death when I came up their stairs from out of nowhere. The police arrested me for trespassing, and my remote lost charge while I was detained. I knew any recall had to be activated from this side, so as soon as I was released, I arranged for that letter.” Frank sighed heavily with regret. “I’ve missed you.”
“A lot happened after you disappeared.”
“I’m sure,” he lamented and rose to his feet. “Guess I’ve got a bit of catching up to do, and a lot of explaining. I think I should start with your mother.”
"Nyumbani"by J.F. Williams
The Pettifew Foundation occupied a centuries-old estate in the primeval woods west of East Tettingham. For two-hundred years, there lay the private records of the Pettifew family, early financiers of England's industrial powers, but now unknown except to historians.
"The foundation," said Mr. Valen as he walked me up the brickwork path. "Has been aggressive in preserving, and protecting, the Pettifew legacy. Good work intercepting that document." He waved his hand to a great double-door below the "CURATOR" sign. We entered a spacious office, the walls lined with an odd jumble of shelfcases filled with various rocks in glass jars. Valen introduced me to an elderly gentlemen in a tweed suit, Mr. Dayleo, chief curator of collections.
"Well, let me see it," Dayleo said cheerily, with outstretched hands.
I took the leather case from my duffel and pulled the document out carefully. It was protected by a clear polymer sleeve. Dayleo scanned it.
"What I expected," Dayleo said. "It's a manifest. And where was this found, again?"
"In the rubble of a house in rural South Carolina. It’s the manifest of a slave ship, isn't it? A very large one. Over two thousand people are counted."
"Yes, well, it," he pointed to me but looked at Valen. "Non-disclosure?"
Valen nodded.
"Good!" Dayleo forced a smile. "I dare say I like to be able to talk about this. Valen knows what I mean. We've all signed NDAs but I Iike when can I tell someone new."
Intriguing, I thought, that the Pettifews made their fortune in the slave trade. I guess they financed the shipping. "I can see why the foundation would not want this to come out," I said. "About the slave ships."
"Oh, there were no ships involved," Dayleo said, taking breath. "There was this thing called the 'Pettifew Cabinet.' We have one in the next room." Dayleo opened another oversized wooden door and there it was, sitting on a Persian carpet, a glossy ceramic box about the size of a wardrobe with a ceramic door and a fancy iron latch, and a brass plate. The cabinet was enclosed in a plexiglass case with a noticeable lock. "These cabinets were paired," he went on. "They shared the same internal space, such that one could enter a cabinet in, say, West Africa, and immediately be in its opposite number, in, say, South Carolina."
"And that's how the slaves were… delivered?" I said, guessing.
"Yes. Once a 'payload' entered a cabinet, its door would stay closed until the door of its paired cabinet were opened. They can never be open at the same time. Time didn't pass at all within the cabinets, so as soon as the door closed, it opened again, by a Pettifew employee, but in a different place. They could transport more slaves, in better shape, than on ships, even after the sea trade was outlawed, and in minutes! History has far undercounted the slave population, and overestimated the efficiency of that system. Most slaves rebelled, so there was a high rate of what they called 'spoilage'."
I was nearly reeling but kept myself upright. My employers were keeping this amazing technology secret because of complicity in that dark enterprise.
"Was anything else found with the document?" asked Dayleo.
"Yes." I pulled a leather bag out of my duffel. "These pottery shards." I noticed their finish matched that of the cabinet. "And this brass plate."
Dayleo grabbed the plate from me and ran to the cabinet, waving us to follow. "Look gentlemen," he said, pointing to the brass plate. "The number, 1-2-7. It's the same on the cabinet. These were a 'pair'. This cabinet was the last found in Guinea and we have been under strict orders to avoid opening it. Pairs were always loaded in West Africa, and emptied in the southern U.S., always one slave at a time, always east-to-west. But nothing prevents the opposite." He ran to his desk and opened a secret drawer, from which he produced a key. He held it aloft ceremoniously and opened the plexiglass case. "Now gentlemen, I am under orders, but given this series of events, I may have to follow a higher moral imperative." He grabbed the iron latch and turned it. The cabinet opened.
Before us stood a young Black woman, dressed in ragged clothes. Her gaze darted around the room, and to us. We all took a step back. Then she spoke, one word, "Nyumbani?"
Valen turned to me and whispered, "'Nyumbani', that's Swahili, for 'home'."
(750 words)
Good Samaritans“Captain Miller?”
A voice called up into the cockpit of the B-52H Stratofortress.
“Who’s asking?”
“Lieutenant Riley sir, DOD liaison officer.”
“Oh right. Come on up. I’m in the middle of preflight.”
Several other crew members pushed past Riley to scramble up the short ladder into the belly of the ancient aircraft.
“Thank you sir. I need to introduce you to someone. May I have five minutes?”
Captain Miller looked down at the Lieutenant. Based on the man’s facial expression, he understood he would have to climb down to him.
“Take over Bens.”
He tossed his checklist to the copilot. Sliding down the ladder, he landed in front of the Lieutenant and quickly noticed the man next to him.
“Captain Miller, I’d like to introduce you to Mister Jax Pelland. He’s the civilian observer for this mission.”
Miller looked the man over. He was lean, almost to the point of being gaunt, and his immaculate gray suit hung too loosely on his frame.
Pelland extended a thin arm to shake Miller’s hand.
“Hello Captain Miller, it is a distinct pleasure,” said Pelland, slowly and distinctly. “I know you’d prefer not to have a civilian on this mission, but ah…”
“It’s alright Mr. Pelland. It’s not my first rodeo. Just try and keep out of the way.”
“I will certainly do so Captain. May I?” Pelland gestured to the ladder.
“By all means. Bens! Civilian coming up. Put him in the jump seat.”
As Pelland disappeared into the bomber, Miller turned his attention back to Lieutenant Riley.
“Why is the Pentagon sending a civilian on this mission?!” he hissed.
“It’s above my paygrade Captain. I have my orders and you have yours. The payload’s been loaded and the clock is ticking sir.”
Miller snorted.
“Just one more thing sir.”
The Lieutenant handed him a sealed envelope covered with every type of security marking he had ever seen.
“What’s this?”
“As far as I know, further orders. Good luck sir.” With that, Riley snapped a quick salute, performed an about-face and quickly exited the massive hangar.
Miller stuffed the envelope into a breast pocket and launched himself up to the flight deck. He turned to his copilot.
“Fire them up!”
“Copy that sir, spooling up on one…”
***
Mister Pelland was as good as his word. Five hours into the mission he had only asked two questions and either stared out the window or at a small black tablet he worked with long fingers. It was only after inflight refueling that he appeared to grow restless.
“Everything okay Mister Pelland?” asked Captain Miller over the roar of the bomber’s eight engines.
“Well Captain, I do believe it is time for you to open the envelope Lieutenant Riley gave you.”
Bens gave Miller a questioning eyebrow.
“And how do you know about that Mister Pelland?”
“Because I helped draft the orders Captain Miller. Would you please open it now? Timing is of the essence.”
Miller pulled the envelope out, broke its seal, aligned its outer markings with pages from the classified code book kept in the bomber’s small safe, and proceeded to read the document inside.
Immediately he grabbed the yoke.
“My airplane,” he said.
“Your airplane,” Bens responded without questioning.
“Bens bring all throttles up to full and set this heading.”
Bens stared at the small strip of paper in Miller’s hand.
“Do it!”
Bens rapidly entered the course correction into the bomber’s navigation computer while Miller began a broad turn to align the aircraft with the new coordinates.
“Thank you Captain,” said Pelland. “Now if you’ll please escort me to the bomb bay.”
“Captain what’s he talking about?”
Miller passed the aircraft back to Bens and unholstered his sidearm.
“Bens, I’m taking Mister Pelland back to our payload. I’m under orders to shoot anyone who follows us into the bomb bay. Do I make myself clear?”
Bens grimaced. “Perfectly sir.”
“Mister Pelland, please follow me.”
Miller sealed the bulkhead behind him, leaving a bewildered Bens to maintain course and speed to their new destination.
Without warning, the bomb door status lights began to flash and Bens felt the aircraft rise in response to a change in weight.
Miller reappeared, sweat streaming down his face.
“Where’s Mister Pelland?” asked Bens.
Miller sat silently for a moment.
“And what the hell happened to the payload?”
A bright flash appeared off the bomber’s port wing. It flew parallel with them for a brief moment, then rocketed away almost vertically into the darkening sky.
(749 words in story) Justin Sewall © 2022
Reviews/critiques welcome
Got Bills to Pay:“How are we gonna afford this?!” Katie cried into the viewscreen. She trembled, holding the latest bill from the a-gravity company. “Jim, you know we can’t lower our G-hours, or the kids will have problems. The doctor already said Sadie’s bones aren’t developed enough.” She didn’t want their unit moved out to the half-G ring, or God forbid, the 0.1G ring.
Jim grumbled but then feigned some hope “They are looking for more drivers to work some extra He3 hauls. Helium-3 prices are high right now so they are looking to pull it out of the ground as fast as they can.”
“Can’t we do something else Jim? It’s dangerous now, I heard the pirates are at it again.” Katie said.
Jim was a contract driver on the cislunar transfer routes. Regolith, water-ice, He3, products from E2M or M2E, he had driven it. Lately, work has gotten more dangerous. The corridors were more crowded with traffic than when he had started 15 years prior. More chances of mishaps, more pirates, alliances and their squabbles over control of this or that piece of rock. He and Katie had lived on Artemis 5 for the last 6 years. Artemis 5 was a large lunar space station that also featured artificial gravity created by the station’s spin. A-gravity was a huge selling point, but came with a hefty utility bill every month. He thought about his 3 kids. ‘At least we got a stipend from Earth for each of them’ he thought. The stipend was to encourage colonization. But growing costs were outstripping even that.
“Katie I’ll talk to the ice authority to see if they have some short and easy ice runs, okay?”
“Ok, I’ll see if I can get some extra shifts at the med bay.” Katie replied, who worked as a technician fixing the scientific and medical equipment around the station. She always complained that she had a PhD in engineering, yet was essentially a janitor in space. Jim had a degree in orbital mechanics, yet was a ‘truck driver’ in space. They got paid huge amounts of money by Earth standards but lived hand-to-mouth by space standards. Space is weird like that. ‘But the views were spectacular’, Katie thought wistfully. She had always been a space nerd.
‘Why, oh, why didn’t I listen to my wife?’ Jim whispered to himself. The pirate was gaining on him. This captain apparently knew what he was doing. The last encounter he had, the pirate must have been a novice as Jim easily outmaneuvered him. This time, he was not so lucky. He tried several of the standard maneuvers listed in the owner’s manual, amusingly in the Chapter labeled Pirates. No Joy.
He saw a hail signal coming in. He punched the open comms button and listened.
“Hello captain, requesting to dock, if you be so kind. The standard terms apply. If you agree, please send your code granting dock privilege.”
‘sheesh’ he wondered to himself if these Pirates had gone to business school.
“Hold on. I will need to consult my consignee first.” Jim replied.
“As you wish. You have 5 minutes.” Replied the pirate captain.
Jim ran a few simulations. He knew that most of the time, pirates had less fuel aboard as they tended to keep close to one area. “I guess I’ll go the long way” he said as he punched the throttle as his ship turned.
“Hey Captain, please stop or we will engage with our laser cannon!” the pirate shouted as Jim’s ship sprang to life and rocketed away. Jim called his bluff as he also knew most pirate ships didn’t have working weapons at any given time, due to lack of parts or repair. The pirate pursued for a half hour but broke off. “Yep, not enough fuel my friend.” Jim muttered.
His fuel meter read at 1% as he docked to the Earth-side space station. “Whew!” he sighed with relief. His He3 cargo automatically started to offload and his ship was refueled.
Katie called.
“Hello” he answered, trying to sound as composed as possible.
“You took some He3, didn’t you?” Katie grilled him.
“Well…” his voice trailed off with smile starting to crack.
“I’m just glad you’re ok,” She said, her eyes peering right into the viewscreen. “But um, honey, sorry but our air bill just came in.” she added.
A notification popped up on his screen. ”I’m on it, I just so happen to have another shipment ready for transport.”
Mod
First round votes:
Tom Olbert => ***Thaddeus
Thaddeus Howze => ***JF
Jot Russell => ***Thaddeus
Kalifer Deil => Tom, Chris, Thaddeus
Jack McDaniel => ***JF, Chris, McLain
Greg Krumrey => ***JF
Chris Nance => ***Thaddeus, Jack, Greg
J.F. Williams => **McLain, Chris, Kalifer, Greg, Jack
Justin Sewall => **McLain, JF, Greg
Jeremy McLain => Jack
Finalists:
Cross-Time Angels by Thaddeus Howze
"Nyumbani" by J.F. Williams
Second round votes:
Tom Olbert => #*Thaddeus
Thaddeus Howze => ****JF
Jot Russell => #*Thaddeus
Kalifer Deil => Tom, Chris, #*Thaddeus
Jack McDaniel => ****JF, Chris, McLain
Greg Krumrey => ****JF
Chris Nance => #*Thaddeus, Jack, Greg
J.F. Williams => McLain, Chris, Kalifer, Greg, Jack; #*Thaddeus
Justin Sewall => McLain, ****JF, Greg
Jeremy McLain => Jack; #*Thaddeus
Winner:
Cross-Time Angels by Thaddeus Howze
Jot, I didn't have an additional vote for Thaddeus, though it doesn't change the outcome. Maybe it was someone else.
Mod
Got it. I think this happened before and I questioned then, too. :)
Mod
Delivery
REQUIRED ELEMENTS:
1) a document
2) a change in direction