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Science Fiction Stories Archive
The last six months of stories are posted for your reading pleasure.
| July 2006 | August 2006 | September 2006 | November 2006 | January 2007 |
Corporate Venture by Philip Bordley, July 2006
"Eighty seven miles to the 'ell-zee' Poppa, and the boys are on the ground safely. Other teams are starting to report first contact," came the word from Sean Miles, my number two, over my headset.
"Time to get your shit together people," I said looking around at my team. There were too many young faces amongst them, young faces that were scared. If you asked any one of them they would have denied it, but some of these kids wished they were anywhere else at this point in time.
The reporter on the radio was talking about Soviet moles leftover from the Cold War. Bill flipped off the car radio and tapped the dial with the back of his stiff index finger without glancing away from the snarled traffic around him.All the old, Cold War KGB moles were dead, or drugged on Thorazine, or had gone so native that they couldn't remember what they were. No one could live cut off from his parents, his language, his food, his legends, his religion, and his jokes for so long. Some of those moles had been underground in the U.S. for twenty years, the NPR reporter had said and then droned on and on about spies while Bill drove home from work in Phoenix's creaky traffic, while the air conditioner lumbered against the hundred degree air and the sun slamming in his window. A hundred and fifty-six missing KGB moles, the radio said. Those moles would have become obese from hot dogs and apple pie, decadent from wild-haired, screaming musicians, and sick from meaningless, fraternizing, bestial sex.
A guitar riff into the future PhD student Tim O’Shenko slipped out of the Portsmouth Guildhall for a smoke. In Britain the anti-smoking legislation had become severe. If caught lighting up in public Tim would be forced to smoke an extra two packets as punishment.
Blow that sax, man. Blow it 'til it bleeds. Play it like there ain't no tomorrow.
***
"What is this thing you call sax? Is it some sort of weather device?"
"No man, it's a horn. A musical instrument."
"I want to know more about this sax. Can I explore further?"
"Go for it. It don't hurt."
Carl Linnaeus, distant relative of the father of modern taxonomy, was returning to Africa to kill the last blue rhino. Several panicked gate agents at Heathrow had phoned security upon seeing the rifle in his carry-on bag, almost causing an abrupt end to his mission. A friendly Sky Marshall, also headed south, agreed to lock the weapon in a forward compartment. Linnaeus surrendered the extra clip of ammunition from his khaki field jacket before taking his first class seat.
The photograph of the house was faded. The ends of the smoked stained paper beneath the photograph were crumbling. He gently closed a book over the photograph, and sighed, joyfully relieved of the poignant memories the house had strangely conjured. The windows of the house were dark holes of limitless space, hollow eyes looking out at the inquisitive traveler. Houses are nothing more than a laboratory, designed to preserve the memories of human existence, to incarcerate the spirit of the human body. Adam gripped his chair, hands sweaty and aching with pain, fully aware of the photograph that he pulled out from the bookshelf. It injures the soul to sweep away the memories in one’s mind. Adam had a good chance at succeeding in life, he was elected class treasurer and he supported many of the can food drives sponsored by the pillars of support.
Off the east coast of Florida, Stormers were setting their nets to sing.
"You ready, girl?" Ston looked over his shoulder at his netter. Girl, that's what he called her. Never Merindi, seldom by her last name of Johanson and never by her rank, which was low in the Stormer hierarchy but impressive for her youth. Behind her back he called her worse, but that was only when he was off duty and in the company of pilots who knew what it was like to deal with a new netter. He knew how scuttlebutt took on a life of its own and knew when and where he could talk freely—or so he thought. Merindi was aware of his colorful names for her and had names for him as well, but she kept those strictly to herself. Let her call him what he wished. Experience wasn't everything. Experience made old men like Ston into fools. “You ready to sing, girly?”
Oh, baby, I need you. Baby, I need you so bad!
Melanie wanted to scream. Too embarrassed to call attention to herself, she tried wiggling her legs. They floundered uselessly. She tried to co-ordinate leg kicks with arm movements but she was still rotating in position, ass over tit. Naked.
This is ridiculous, she thought. It's like something out of a bad comedy.
That's right, honey, I'm gonna do it to you all night.
She clenched her teeth. "Turn off that damn music!"
Having crash-landed on an unnamed planet in a star system known only as R-17, bandy-legged Captain Gus Eckert prepared himself for a life of lonely survival. An interstellar anomaly had knocked him so far off the beaten path--hyperspatial transit being such a fickle thing nowadays--he doubted if he'd ever see humankind again. The good news was that although his starcraft was a crumpled mess after having impacted on the planet's surface, his astute high-performance robot known as Lancelot and his portable nanochine factory had both survived. Though the uninhabited planet would have ordinarily been survivable despite its rocky, arid environment, the bad news was that R-17 was showing every sign of going nova. This according to Lancelot, who had extensive files on such things. Maybe if Gus had let the spindly metallic genius pilot the craft when they'd encountered the hyperspatial anomaly, he wouldn't be in this mess now. But he shrugged it off and told Lancelot to construct the necessary underground bunker crucial to their survival.
Russell Chase looked out the window at the rust-covered surface of Mars more than a thousand miles below. After ten years of planning, five years of training, and six long months in space, humans had finally arrived at the fourth planet from the sun. Now, inside their ship, the astronauts ringed the planet in a rough, elliptical orbit, awaiting confirmation from Houston Control that everything was A-OK for lander descent.
They were nearly twenty light-minutes from Earth, and communication with mission control was agonizingly slow. Throughout the mission, the crew had engaged in short trivia contests to kill time while waiting for responses. Once they all had gotten an initial look at Mars “up close,” Jackie suggested they revive the game one last time to set the mood for the historic landing to come.
“Okay, new game – other names of Mars.”
This course will explore the history, strategy, status, goals, and objectives of the current intergalactic conflict. Each topic is briefly explained in the following course summary.
History
Although nobody remembers how this conflict started all those centuries ago, we remain certain that our cause is just. The bravery and commitment of our side in this struggle is legendary. Their side lacks common sense, courage, decency, and access to a decent dry cleaning service. These so-called soldiers in their wrinkled uniforms are an embarrassment to neat, highly trained killing machines throughout the universe. Also, they're green, which is not a skin tone you can easily coordinate with a tie. Even a great tailor can't make arms that long look normal. Let's face it, our enemy is already on the run when it comes to fashion sense. Have you seen their cruise wear? Who dresses these peopleThe last six months of stories are posted for your reading pleasure.
| July 2006 | August 2006 | September 2006 | November 2006 | January 2007 |
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