BREAD AND SALT

Mark Silcox

As the stimulants entered his bloodstream, Klaus saw a human figure moving behind tracings of frost on a glass panel. It was his wife Claire, who had obviously already been released from dormancy. But this was wrong, he remembered: they had always made sure in the past that their two beds were perfectly synchronized. Neither of them much enjoyed the experience of re-entering the world alone.

She was still naked, leaning against the wall, massaging her right foot beneath the huge, framed Rembrandt original the Firm had sent them two sleep cycles ago. “Frostbite?” Klaus asked her, as his bed tilted forward and he stepped out into the conditioned air of the recovery room.

Claire smiled and walked up to him, sliding her arms over his shoulders. “Nothing serious. I’ve already sprayed it with analgesic. I’ll show it to a medical ’bot tonight, after the party’s over.”

Klaus kissed her lightly, still foggy in his mind, his limbs shivering. “It was only an eight-year freeze. Funny that the beds would malfunction like that after having worked well for almost two centuries.”

Claire stepped away from him and began to unfold the lightweight robe she had left out after their last awakening. “I should probably head to the kitchen and synth up a few trays of appetizers. I’ll grab a snack for you while I’m there.”

“Did the HouseMind explain to you when you woke up why our sleep cycles were out of sync?”

“Oh.” She pressed the palm of her hand against her forehead. “No! I guess it didn’t. That’s rather strange, isn’t it? I’m sorry darling—you know how absent-minded I can sometimes be right after a freeze.”

“HouseMind!” Klaus snapped, looking upwards at the speakers embedded in the corners of the room’s hand-painted ceiling. “This is the voice of Klaus Rumancek. Rehearse protocol E-16: Surface Memory Inventory. Please tell us everything that’s changed here over the past decade.”

His command was met with total silence.

The computer is down! Klaus felt an icy prickle at the bottom of his stomach. This had always been his deepest fear about the way that they lived. During the long uneventful periods between parties, both of them were utterly helpless in their beds while the machine maintained their home, managed their finances, preserved their art collection, and sustained their bodily functions. The ’Mind’s gently maternal voice was normally the first thing they heard after dormancy, reminding them of what tasks their employers needed them to perform during each cycle of wakefulness.

Klaus remembered that their latest round of visitors was scheduled to arrive on the interstellar galleon Cartier a few hours after they unfroze. Between now and then the pair of them had to synthesize and lay out a full, four-course meal, design a playlist of up-to-date popular music, and enlighten themselves on recent economic and political happenings throughout their region of the galaxy. Accomplishing all of this without the AI’s help would be nearly impossible.

He tilted his head back and was about to call out to the computer again. But then Claire’s eyes met his and wordlessly begged him: don’t!

Klaus looked his wife up and down. Claire swallowed and attempted a smile. She had always had a nervous disposition, but she seemed to have acquired a more cautious, tentative demeanor during their last few cycles together. A slender lock of her hair had turned a feathery silver during their last sleep. He drew her toward him for a longer embrace.

She pressed her face against his bare shoulder. “I know we don’t really dream in those beds,” she said, “but I always feel afterwards that I’ve experienced time going by. It’s like that poet from Kepler 61b said in the sonnet he read to us a few freezes ago. What was the line?”

“Time always finds a way to speak its passing, even through the space between the stars.” Klaus stroked her back through the silky robe. “I’m sure everything will be fine, love. We set the clock so we’d be revived six full hours before the Cartier arrives. There should be plenty of time to check the circuits and fix the ’Mind before then.”

“I wonder who’ll be visiting with the crew of the Cartier. I hope they bring along another writer or a composer or something. It can be tiresome talking for the whole evening with commodity traders.”

“I looked at the passenger manifest just before we went dormant, but I’ve forgotten.” Klaus was getting antsy. If the ’Mind turned out to be seriously damaged and needed a full reboot, they’d have a pretty tight window to operate in before the evening’s festivities were in danger of being disturbed.

Claire suddenly became very brisk and cheerful. “Well, whoever is coming, at any rate, I’m sure they’ll want to hear all the gossip from planetside. You’d better go catch up on the news.”

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AFTER JERUSALEM

Mark Patrick Lynch

At first there was shuffling, scratching, a long moment of silence. And then the voice whispered in the close dark, hesitantly forming words on the other side of the grille.

“I’m sorry, Father. I don’t know how to begin this.”

The priest did his best to stifle a sigh. On top of so much else, was he now expected to guide those without the Faith as well? While he was aware that Sin knew no boundaries and moved freely among men of all creeds, might it not find absolution elsewhere?

He’d foolishly hoped a new parish might present him with some respite from the unending struggle; after all, there were fewer people here than in the grand cities and colonies he’d served during his many years wearing the collar.

Yet it seemed that some great irony was being played, because he was busier now than ever.

He brought hands heavily corded with veins together as if in prayer, and, trying to keep the tiredness and disappointment from his voice, asked his question.

“You’re not a Catholic, then?”

“Lapsed,” came the answer, eventually. “A long time ago.”

Father O’Connor closed his eyes and rested the back of his head against the rear of the confessional. He thought of the many voices that had drifted through similarly patterned grilles beside his cheek over the years. In city after city the lost had come to him, whisperers, sobbers, wailers – all petitioning him for some form of release from their troubles. There never seemed to be a change in the routine.

“But it’s not been so long that you’ve forgotten the confessional?”

“Some things stay with you. I was very young . . .”

“And not been back to the church since?”

“Weddings and funerals, Father.”

Did the priest detect a hint of guilt there? Perhaps. The world, new to him as it was, appeared filled with it. There had been so many funerals of one kind or another, and they had tired him considerably. Outside his confession box, candles burned traces of unfamiliar gases at the altar. Quivering flames hungry with stars of green and yellow and fuchsia in remembrance of those long since passed. They burned while blue autumn leaves pressed against the stained glass windows above, twisted trees attempting to gain admittance, as if in so doing they might be relieved of the ghosts beneath their dying roots. So many dead, thought Father O’Connor. So, so many dead. It was a wonder the world didn’t implode with their weight.

Collecting himself, Father O’Connor blinked in the darkness of his booth and brought his thoughts to the present and this poor man in need of . . . something.

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PTERODACTYL SPARKS

Matthew Hance

Excerpt from the short story He was a Cannibal by Martin Twang followed by comments from his writing group.

Pterodactyl Sparks, at three months old, knew. He knew his mother was going to get hit by a bus on July 3rd. He knew she would be dead. And he knew he would, too, because he would be inside of her. That’s when Pterodactyl decided that banging on her stomach, pulling on her organs, pooping inside of her wasn’t garnering anything other than oohs and aahs. It was time for drastic measures.

On July 2nd, Pterodactyl broke through his mother’s ribcage and inserted bits of broken bones into his gums to give himself razor sharp teeth. He pushed onward, knowing very well how his actions would be viewed by the world, and ate a hole through his mother’s stomach. She did not notice, because being pregnant is very painful, and this was on par with that pain.

On July 3rd, Pterodactyl was able to tuck and roll out of his mother’s stomach, just before the bus smacked her head-on. It was midnight, and the mother was walking home late from work. So Pterodactyl rolled, unseen to the crowded streets of New York City, into a sewer where a mutant lizard named Rowley caught the baby in its arms. During this moment, it became July 4th, and the true meaning of Independence Day was achieved…

“This is like Nicholas Cage from the movie Next meets Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles directed by Uwe Boll and that’s not a compliment.” – Jonathan Blaine

“How could a baby produce enough force to break ribs? Wait, scratch that. Why is there a baby named Pterodactyl Sparks?” – Dana Todd

“This is easily the worst story I’ve ever read in this group, and I even read Ryan Tom’s ‘It has really happened’.” – Jonathan Blaine

“Have you tried not writing?” – Stephanie Wieland

“Knock, knock. Who’s there? Jonathan Blaine. Jonathan Blaine who? Jonathan Blaine will always be 500,000,000 times better than you at writing, Bitch.” – Jonathan Blaine

5/25/2014

Entry from Martin Twang’s diary.

I just received another batch of He was a Cannibal rejections. Eight from magazines, all personal. They each went out of their way to try and convince me to bury this story deep inside the earth and then find a new hobby, particularly one where my hands would get ripped off. One said, “Reading your story was like coming across a Roman numeral while doing long division. It seriously turned my entire world upside down, and my world, before reading your story, was very, very good.”

The last rejection came in the form of not making the 60 finalists in the Some Guy Named Tony’s “This is the first thing I ever wrote competition”. How didn’t I make the cut? There weren’t even 60 entries!

To add insult to injury, Jonathan Blaine, the guy from my writing group who said my story was the worst ever, won some huge contest. He brought the jumbo check for $10,000 to the last meeting. I say “last” because I’m never going back there. Forget those losers.

I’m so sick of Rowling and Meyers and Patterson and Shakespeare and some lady who took pride in being prejudiced. And Jonathan Blaine wearing his black, thick-framed glasses and tucked-in sweater vest and hair that looks like it belongs on an action figure. How do these people make millions of dollars off of that crap? I haven’t read any of their garbage, but everyone says they suck, yet they’re really popular.

I just don’t get it.

7/14/2014

Entry from Martin Twang’s diary.

I got it! Famous authors have crazy origin stories that make their lame fictional stories even better.

I figured, instead of me, why not cement Pterodactyl Sparks into the history books? Make him real to exact revenge upon those worthless editors and critiquing partners and anyone who reads.

The idea struck me today while I was on campus. I was sitting in the grass, writing down my biography and how I was going to sell my first novel and make millions, when someone laughed, pointed and yelled, “Look at that dufus with a diary!”

I yelled back, “It’s not a diary—it’s a journal!” They were out of journals when my mom picked this diary up.

Anyway, some other kid, a long green-bean of a kid with a broccoli head, came up to me and said, “Hey, Friend, do you believe everything you hear?”

I said, “No.”

“Then you’re not a dufus.”

“Thanks.”

“Do you believe in Jesus?”

I shrugged.

“Good, you shouldn’t.” He handed me a business card which stated in letters that bled off the stock “The Searchers” and then he broke out into a speech while I stared at the words. “We’re the searchers.” He giggled, because we both knew I already read that part. “We don’t believe anything that’s out there. In Jesus or God or alien lords—none of that stuff. But we do believe there’s something we should believe in, we just don’t know what.”

I looked up to catch an egg splatter against this kid’s broccoli head. When he turned to me dripping yolk, I said, “This must be destiny, because I know.”

“You know?”

“I do. I know what no one else knows. It’s the truth.”

“The truth?”

I nodded. “No one believes in it.”

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It was the Thursday night after carnival, the Maroon Bird overnight run from Salvador, Bahia, straight on to Paraíso in the state of Tocantins, and most of the passengers in the queue at the door looked like they hadn’t slept for a week. Harold showed his ticket and took a seat in the middle of the bus.

Harold was an investigative journalist, or at least that was what he said if anyone asked him. In fact it hadn’t really been true since he’d quit his job at the São Paulo Star. Now he was a free-lance hack who chased any sensational story he could find, and sold it to any tabloid that would pay.

It was a job with plenty of opportunities to travel, by bus if he could afford it and hitchhiking if he couldn’t, and plenty of opportunities to meet people, mostly bald-faced liars.

This was his second trip to Paraíso. He’d heard rumors of alien sightings, and in January he’d interviewed Sérgio, who claimed to have seen aliens on the ridge behind his house.

—They look like us—humanoids—but they glow, they’re luminous. I spotted them easily at night.

Sérgio had shown Harold a gaudy plastic and metal weapon.

—They must be creatures made of pure energy held together by magnetic fields. My patented disruptor will blow them apart.

Harold nodded. He’d glimpsed dollar signs in Sérgio’s eyes.

—They can only be here in Tocantins for one reason. They’re planning an invasion. Every Brazilian is going to need one of my disruptors for protection.

Since January, there had been more sightings of the aliens around Paraíso, so apparently Sérgio’s weapon hadn’t dissuaded them. Now it was time for Harold to do a follow-up.

***

The woman in the seat beside Harold had straggling blond hair with flecks of tinsel in it, leftovers from carnival. She read through the Tocantins Times, rustling the pages while Harold tried to sleep.

“I wrote that piece, senhorinha.” He pointed at the article the woman was reading.

“Really? You’re Senhor Harold Bates? Forgive me, but you don’t look like a gringo.”

“It’s just a pseudonym. Did you like the story? “

“The truth, senhor?”

“If you think it’s necessary.”

“It’s ridiculous nonsense. Golden aliens glowing like the sun, and that man making weapons to destroy them.”

“It’s all true. After their spacecraft landed on the ridge they told Sérgio there were more of them on the way. Tocantins is just the beachhead. It’s located midway between Mato Grosso and Bahia, I’m sure you appreciate the strategic significance. It will be Tocantins first and then the world. That’s what Sérgio said.”

Harold had embellished the story somewhat.

“If these aliens exist at all, they’re highly advanced beings. There’s no evidence that they mean us any harm, yet this … Sérgio would attack them without the slightest provocation. It’s a disgrace. Imagine what we could learn from them if we welcomed them with open arms.”

Harold nodded. “You might be right, senhorinha.”

***

In the small hours of Friday morning, the driver announced their arrival in Paraíso. The announcement was greeted with a chorus of swearing from the passengers, who were displeased they’d been woken up.

The tinsel blonde ran a brush through her hair and tinfoil stars floated in the air.

“I’ve been mulling over your ideas about the aliens, senhorinha. They’re very perceptive. I’m preparing an opinion piece for the Tocantins Times and I’ll be in Paraíso until Saturday. Perhaps I could interview you?”

She considered for a moment. “I don’t see why not. I work at Oliveira’s Hardware. Come and see me and perhaps we can arrange something.”

“Excuse me, senhorinha, who should I ask for?”

“I’m Naia.”

***

The Tocantins Sunshine Lodge advertised the cheapest tariffs in Paraíso, and it lived up to Harold’s expectations. After a few hours’ sleep in a bare concrete cell, he went to a bar where he’d arranged to meet a local school teacher, Doctor Benito Dias, who claimed to have seen the aliens on several occasions.

The doctor had straight black hair and a thin face with sagging eyes and jowls, like an underfed Saint Bernard, and he only drank bourbon, rattling the ice in his glass as he spoke.

“I’ve made a detailed study of the aliens. I understand them better than anyone, and I have a theory about their radiant emissions.” He glanced at his watch. “But perhaps you’d like to see them for yourself?”

Doctor Dias suggested they pay a visit to Araguaia Park, where he said the aliens often turned up, and Harold agreed.

***

A few hours later, crouched in the brush with a light rain falling, a plastic sheet covering his camera, and so many mosquitoes whining around him that they were colliding mid-air, Harold’s enthusiasm began to fade.

“I’ve seen them here many times, dancing in the fields. Gorgeous ethereal beings, almost like angels,” the doctor whispered. “I’m sorry we were unlucky tonight, senhor.”

Harold slapped at a mosquito that was too bloated to take off. “May I ask how often you come here, doctor?”

“Generally two or three times a week. More often in the school holidays.”

“Perhaps we should call it a night.”

“Yes, certainly, but I suggest we try again tomorrow. The phantasms will be back, I’m sure of it.”

“Phantasms, doctor? Why would you call the aliens ‘phantasms’?”

“That’s the name for them around here. Everyone has called them the Tocantins phantasms for as long as I can remember.”

“So these luminous beings have been coming to Tocantins for a long time then?”

“For at least twenty years.”

On the walk back to the car, Harold asked the good doctor to explain his theory about the aliens.

“We assume that extraterrestrial life is basically like us. Life on earth is life from the sun. Sunlight shines on the plants and they grow, and whether it’s direct or indirect, the earth’s creatures consume energy that almost always comes from the sun. But the aliens don’t consume energy, they radiate it. They’re intensely luminous, and that means they can’t live like us. They must live backwards.”

To emphasize the importance of his revelation, Doctor Dias stopped walking and stared at Harold until he stopped scratching.

“Very interesting. Please continue, doctor.”

“The aliens’ perception is completely different to ours. For them, everything is reversed in time. They perceive all motions as running backwards, and rays of light travel in the opposite direction. They see themselves as dark, and they are warmed by a golden light that is emitted by everything around them on this earth. The sun is like a black hole that absorbs radiation from space. From our perspective of the flow of time, the aliens live before they are born.”

***

After he’d parted ways with Doctor Dias, Harold went back to the bar, and back to drinking.

A year before, when he was lead reporter for the Star, he’d never imagined he would leave São Paulo. But one evening his flight to Brasília was delayed, and he’d come back to his apartment to find his wife Ana in bed with his good friend Tomás.

He’d taken the bus from their bedroom and never looked back, and his career, his home, his wife, the identity that he’d wrapped around himself like a cozy blanket, were all left behind.

In the end, it hadn’t been Ana’s lies and excuses that had truly hurt him, that had driven him away that night, but the realization that her moods, her inexplicable happiness and anger, which he’d imagined were because of something he’d done or not done unwittingly, had nothing at all to do with him. They’d been a reflection of her relationship with Tomás, who was the real source of her joy and sorrow.

He signaled to the bartender for a refill and handed over the last of his cash. When he faced up to it, which he never did when he was sober, he half believed that it was his fault—his life had imploded because of his lack of awareness, his assumption that everything would just run along with no effort from him.

From there, it was only a small step to the conclusion that he fully deserved to be Harold Bates.

***

The next day, with his head pounding from the previous night’s excess of cheap cane spirits, Harold went to visit Naia at the hardware store. There was a commotion outside the doors, people were talking and pointing, and when he entered the store he saw his first alien. A moment later someone tried to chop the creature’s head off with a plantation knife, and a massive electric shock stopped his heart.

***

Earlier the same day …

“It isn’t the same as Rio, but the Afrodrome was amazing, and everyone was so friendly. Someone even gave me a seat in the VIP area.”

Naia had traveled to Salvador for Carnival, and she was the center of attention of the small group gathered at the checkouts of the hardware store.

“You should have seen their gowns, Vilma. They were spinning around like princesses at the ball. You have to come next year.”

“I will,” Vilma said, and thought about the sweating crowds jammed into the stands and dancing along the circuits in the streets.

Someone called out from the aisles, “Oi, a little help here please.”

The owner of the store was still in Rio with his wife, and he wouldn’t return until Monday. Alessandro replied. “Just a minute, senhor. Can’t you see we’re busy here?”

Naia talked breathlessly about the carnival schools, the pounding of the drums, the floats with the stars of samba. “You know what? We should all go next year.”

Alessandro was gazing into the distance, not through the store windows, but along the glass corridors of time. “I remember my first carnival. I was living in Rio, and it rained a lot that February. I met Célia, all in yellow with a chrysanthemum in her hair. Célia, I’ll never forget her. Or maybe it was … Celina—”

His eyes refocused in the present. “Anyway, it’s your turn now. I’ve had my share of carnivals.”

“I’ll come with you, Naia,” Hiroshi said.

“The three of us will go.”

Vilma thought about the carnival and what she would take—asthma inhalers and antibiotics, stacks of aspirin, the drums would give anyone a headache, and then there was her feather allergy, continuous sneezing and a rash, so she’d have to stay away from feathery costumes and take along some antihistamines just in case, and what had she forgotten?

It didn’t matter, because Vilma knew she wouldn’t go, not next year, not any year, and she would never be Célia or Celina with a chrysanthemum.

“I met a journalist in the bus on the way back. He wrote a story in the Tocantins Times about the sightings of aliens around here. He’s going to do more interviews.” Naia brushed her blond hair back over her ear. “He wants to talk to me as well. He’s interested in my theories about the aliens.”

Vilma was fairly sure that, whoever the reporter was, he was interested in more than Naia’s theories.

The impatient customer was approaching them, and Alessandro stubbed his cigarette. “I’d better sort him out,” he said, and left the group.

“And did you two find any gold while I was away?”

There were abandoned goldfields west of Paraíso, and Hiroshi was a keen prospector. He’d built a metal detector out of a converted lawnmower, and over the Carnival holiday, Vilma had gone with him to the shores of Confusion Lake to try it out.

Fields had been randomly mown, flocks of moorhens startled by the noise had skidded off the lake, they’d dug futile holes and filled them in, and at sunset as they dug the last hole of the day, the spade had clunked against something hollow.

“We didn’t find any gold, but there was something interesting. Did you bring it in, Hiroshi?”

Hiroshi produced a copper chest about the size of a shoe box. He’d cleaned off the verdigris and sawn through the padlock on the hinged lid. “This was buried a meter down. You wouldn’t be able to find it with an ordinary metal detector, but the coil I attached to the mower sends a high power electromagnetic pulse into the ground.” He spoke with some pride.

“What’s inside it?”

“It’s strange.” Hiroshi opened the box. It contained an odd-looking electromechanical device and a yellowed piece of paper with handwriting that had faded to near invisibility.

Naia picked up the paper. “Can I borrow your glasses, Vilma?”

Vilma handed them over. She was more curious about the now blurred device.

“I think this is a list of three names, they’re numbered. I can’t make them out. I think the first might be someone … Pereira. That’s your family name, Hiroshi.”

“That’s what I thought. Anyway, it’s a common name.”

Vilma was inspecting the electromechanical device at nose-length. “This thing looks like some sort of crystal, quartz maybe. The mounting has a hole tapped in it. I’d say twenty millimeters, fine thread.”

Vilma was an expert in screw sizes. She was the one who restocked the shelves and made sure everything was put back in the right place when customers were lazy.

Naia returned her thick rimmed glasses and Vilma verified the thread. “It is, one point five millimeters fine.”

“I hadn’t looked at it closely. Is there anything in the bore?” Hiroshi sounded surprised.

“A couple of copper contact rings, looks like.”

“Whatever it is, it will screw onto my metal detector, that’s exactly the same as the connector I made for the drive coil.”

“I think you should try it out, Hiroshi, see what it does.” Naia smiled at him, and he responded with sudden enthusiasm.

“I will. I’m only working half a day today. I’ll try it when I go home.”

***

The store was unusually busy in the afternoon, and Vilma and Naia worked the checkouts while Alessandro assisted anyone who managed to find him.

Just after one o’clock, there was a commotion in the aisles. There were screams and imprecations, and people began running for the doors.

Alessandro was helping a customer at Vilma’s checkout with her pot plants. “Excuse me, senhora, I’ll have to sort this out.”

He turned to Vilma. “It’ll be another mule’s head on the shelves in the do-it-yourself aisle.” He put out his cigarette and went to check.

Confusion and panic spread along the checkout lines, and in a few minutes everyone had left the store.

“Naia, what’s going on?”

“I don’t know. A man in my queue was babbling about the end of the world. He said he was going to the Madureira Church to pray for absolution.”

Alessandro came back agitated. “Senhorinhas, we have to get out of here. I saw them with my own eyes.” He caught is breath.

“Calm down, Alessandro. What did you see?”

“Aliens. Three of them.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Alessandro. There’s no such—”

“Look.” Naia was staring, wide-eyed. She pointed down an aisle.

It was coming towards them from the back of the store—a tall willowy shape that seemed to be formed of bright yellow light, with arms and legs, a head and a torso like a human, but with no distinguishable features on its face, and no fingers or toes.

It moved in graceful waves, oscillations that rippled through its limbs and body, and it stopped before them, with its chest expanding and contracting as if it were breathing.

“This is an historic moment. It wants to talk to us. We’re going to communicate with an alien species.” Vilma felt quite relaxed. Despite War of the Worlds, she thought it was unlikely that extraterrestrial bacteria could cross the inter-species boundary.

She addressed the alien, “Welcome to Brazil, senhor.”

Naia was staring at the creature, entranced. “Meu Deus, he’s so beautiful. Like an Aztec sun god.”

“Naia, how do you know it’s a ‘he’?”

“I just do. How do you know he understands Portuguese?”

Vilma was puzzled. “It’s just standing there. What’s it doing in the hardware store anyway?”

“It’s rude to talk about him as if he’s not here, Vilma.” She smiled at the alien. “I’m Naia and this is my friend Vilma. We finish work at six o’clock.”

“Why did you say that?”

“Welcome to Brazil, senhor,” Naia mimicked.

Alessandro, who’d disappeared into the aisles again, returned with a long bladed plantation knife. “It’s a dangerous creature, senhorinhas, stand back.”

Brandishing the knife, he spoke to the alien slowly, in English. “Get out of here, Gort. Go back to your own planet.”

There was no response from the luminous being, and holding the knife two-handed, Alessandro swung it in a shallow arc at the extraterrestrial’s neck.

The blade passed straight through as if the alien wasn’t there and nicked a customer who’d just walked into the store. There was a crackle of electricity along the blade, from the alien to the unlucky stranger, and he fell to the floor.

Alessandro had been protected by the knife’s insulated handle. “Whoops,” he said.

The alien seemed to be interested in something at the checkout counter, and Vilma ignored it. She crouched down and felt the stranger’s neck for a pulse.

There was nothing, but cardiopulmonary resuscitation was one of the medical scenarios Vilma had studied.

***

“Merda!” Harold coughed and spluttered.

The woman who’d been vigorously pumping his chest stopped and used an asthma inhaler.

“Senhorinha. I think you may have saved my life.”

“You’re welcome, senhor. It’s dangerous in here, there are aliens. You should leave.”

“He’s the reporter I told you about, Vilma. It’s Senhor Harold Bates.” Naia spoke without taking her eyes off the luminous being. “He’s trying to tell us something with his arms.”

Harold looked at his own arms, then at the alien’s. One had darkened at the end, and it was pushing a copper chest on the counter. After that, it unmistakably pointed at Naia. There was no doubt it was trying to communicate.

“I’m an expert in alien phenomena,” Harold said, not adding that up until today his work had been inventions and lies. “Perhaps I can help you. What’s in the box?”

Vilma introduced herself and Alessandro, who mumbled a vague apology and sheepishly offered him a cigarette. She told Harold about the crystal that Hiroshi had taken with him to test on his metal detecting lawnmower, and the list with three names on it. Meanwhile, the alien repeated its actions several times, pushing the box, and pointing at Naia.

“It’s as if the alien knows about the box, and it knows who we are,” Vilma said.

Outside there was the sound of someone with a loudhailer. Police were advising curious onlookers to clear the area and move away. Harold could see them setting up barricades, and green lights were flashing through the store windows.

The alien had apparently finished delivering its message, and it walked towards the store entrance with its gentle rippling movement.

“I’m going with him,” Naia said, and followed behind.

When the alien came out to the street there was a chorus of shouts. “Look out!” Vilma yelled. With a roar of automatic weapons fire, the plate glass of the store front shattered and crashed to the ground.

The alien continued on its way, untouched, but Naia was hit by a round that passed through its body, and she fell to the ground with blood pumping out of her chest.

***

Nothing could be done to save Naia, and Vilma was inconsolable. Harold and Alessandro looked on as she sobbed, coughing and wheezing.

The police hadn’t entered the store, perhaps because they’d been advised there was more than one alien, and the loudhailer was calling on the extraterrestrials to release the hostages and surrender themselves.

Harold thought about the alien’s inexplicable behavior. “Vilma, that creature wanted you to use the crystal on Naia. I think that’s what it was trying to tell us.”

“Well senhor, whatever it wanted, it’s too late now.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. We know nothing about the crystal. It might be alien technology.”

Vilma blew her nose, took a deep breath, and calmed herself. “I suppose you’re right, senhor. We have to at least try. My car is parked behind the warehouse. We’ll have to carry her body. And there are two more of the creatures around here somewhere.”

“The police are more dangerous than the aliens. We don’t want them to stop us.”

Alessandro volunteered. “I’ll take care of that, I’ll distract them.”

While Alessandro went to the front of the store and waved a piece of muslin curtain he’d tied to a rake handle, Vilma and Harold wheeled a shopping cart with Naia’s body in it to the car.

They saw no sign of the other aliens.

***

They found Hiroshi’s body in the backyard of his house, lying close to the lawnmower.

“Hiroshi, Hiroshi.” Tears streamed down Vilma’s cheeks. “This can’t be happening. My best friends.”

Harold inspected the body, but there were no obvious wounds. He dragged it away across the lawn and exposed the crystal underneath, still connected by a cable to the mower. He pulled Naia’s body on top of the crystal.

Vilma was huddled on the ground, clutching her knees to her chest, rocking and sobbing.

“Vilma, querida, I need you to help me now. How does the lawnmower work?”

Vilma, taking deep breaths, repeated the explanation Hiroshi had given her when they went prospecting.

“You start the mower, and it charges a high-voltage … capacitator that sends a pulse of electricity into the coil—the crystal, that’s the crystal now. There’s only one pulse unless you push the throttle.”

Harold pulled the mower’s starter cord and the motor turned over. The capacitor charged in less than a minute and there was a sharp crack.

Naia’s body was still, unmoving.

“I’m sorry, Vilma. It was just … a stupid idea.”

“No it wasn’t. We had to try.” She used her asthma inhaler, and the alien that had come into the yard unnoticed seemed to be watching her.

“Look,” Harold said, whispering for no reason.

The alien went over to Naia’s body. Tall and beautiful in the fading light, with a luminous mist streaming upwards from its head and shoulders to high above the trees before it dissipated, the alien lay down on Naia, shrank until it was Naia’s size, and merged with her, dissolving into her until there was just a golden nimbus, and then nothing.

“I don’t understand. What happened to the alien? Did it bring Naia back to life?”

Harold touched Naia’s cold face. He shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

He tried to concentrate. Harold Bates was a hack who invented stories about aliens, but once he’d been an investigative reporter, and he’d worked by putting the pieces of evidence together, seeing the pattern.

“They’re not aliens, they’re … spirits. They’re the Tocantin phantasms.” He was sure about that at least. The creatures matched the description that Doutor Dias had given him. The phantasms had been around for a long time, and they had connections with people that he didn’t understand yet, but they weren’t extraterrestrials.

“Really? My mother told me about the phantasms. She lives near Confusion Lake. She used to see them at sunrise, on the eastern shore.”

“The phantasm in the hardware store knew Naia, and it knew about the copper chest. So if it was someone’s spirit, like a ghost, whose would it be?”

“The only person who knew about the chest and wasn’t actually in the store was Hiroshi.”

“Hiroshi, then. It was Hiroshi’s phantasm in the hardware store.”

“So Hiroshi was already dead when the aliens, I mean the phantasms, appeared.” Vilma hesitated. “But that can’t be right. The phantasms appeared not long after he’d left. He would have still been driving home then.”

Harold was thinking about what they’d just seen. “It can’t be a coincidence that the phantasm came here right after we powered up the crystal under Naia’s body. It had to be Naia’s phantasm, her spirit.”

“That doesn’t make sense. Why would her spirit go back into her body after she died?”

Vilma was right, nothing made sense. The phantasms of Naia and Hiroshi had been in the hardware store when they were both still alive, and they’d disappeared into their bodies when they died.

Except that it didn’t make sense a very particular way. It was backwards.

He remembered what Doutor Dias had said about the aliens.

—They’re intensely luminous, and that means they can’t live like us. They must live backwards.

The luminous phantasms lived backwards. He explained to Vilma.

“You’re saying that when we saw Naia’s phantasm arrive and enter her body, she was actually leaving?”

“Yes, their perception of time is the reverse of ours, their lives stretch into our past. When Hiroshi’s phantasm came to the hardware store, he first witnessed Naia’s death, and then showed us what to do by pointing at the copper chest. That was the way he experienced the events.”

“I can’t imagine what it would be like, to see the world that way.”

“Doutor Dias told me that for them, the whole world is aglow, the plants and animals, the land and sea. I wonder what they will know, what they will come to understand.”

“My mother saw Naia and Hiroshi on the shores of Confusion Lake. At some time in their future, which is our past, they’ll prepare the crystal, put it in the copper chest, and bury it.”

Harold nodded. “I guess so. But there was someone else. There were three phantasms. The note had three names.”

At that moment, a slender golden creature came around the corner of the house and stood before them.

It was the flaming spirit, the soul of one of them, so whatever happened had to be predestined, but it didn’t feel that way to Harold. He was weary of the journey that had started in his apartment in São Paulo, and there was no end in sight, just a long bus ride downhill.

For a moment he contemplated using the crystal on himself, separating his soul from his body and starting again, freed from Harold Bates.

Sometimes a situation is so bizarre that a person’s mind jumps tracks, their usual reactions no longer apply, and they become unpredictable, capable of anything. Vilma pulled her inhaler and foil arrays of pills out of her pockets, stared at them as if she didn’t recognize them, and let them fall to the ground. She stood in silence, gazing at her phantasm, her face wet with tears and snot.

She needed the gentlest of encouragements. Harold held out his hand. She took it, and he led her to the crystal.

***

The sound of heavy vehicles in the street outside had stopped and doors were slamming. The police had traced the sightings of aliens to Hiroshi’s street. They were going house to house, and Harold was looking at three bodies in the backyard. He’d inspected the crystal and it had shattered with its final use.

He thought for a moment and went searching inside the house. He found a baseball bat— that would have to do.

He slammed it into a concrete wall a couple of times, sat down on the back steps, and took his pen and notepad out of his pocket.

I Witnessed the Tocantins Massacre.

Despite the heroic efforts of the Paraíso Police, they were unable to reach us in time.

I tried to save my friends from the aliens with a baseball bat, but it was almost ineffective against their magnetic shielding. With a surge of electricity from a single touch, the evil aliens stopped their hearts. Alone, I fought on valiantly until finally they lost interest in me.

My greatest regret is that I left my Magnetic Disruptor behind in my hotel room. The inexpensive device, which will shortly be available at Oliveira’s Hardware in Paraíso, emits powerful rays that are capable of destroying the aliens’ magnetic protection. Had I brought it with me, my dear friends, the innocent victims of cruel extraterrestrials who took their lives without a second thought, would still be with us today.

Harold Bates

Your roving reporter

He would flesh it out later. For now, he had nowhere to stay and no money. He was homeless and friendless, and he was Harold Bates.

Still, the police would probably hold him overnight at least, and Sérgio had promised him ten percent of the disruptor sales.

Food for Thought

The logical problem with time travel is the Bilking Paradox, meaning that information sent from the future to the past can be used to “bilk” a future event, i.e., cause it not to happen after it’s happened. Putting the cause after the effect (out of order) creates a causal loop, and it’s been argued that this paradox means time travel, or more accurately, transmission of information from the future to the past, is impossible.

In speculative fiction, the logical difficulty is handled in various ways, such as maintaining self-consistency, changing or new realities, or simply ignoring the contradictions. In Tocantins, the approach is self-consistency, without delving too deeply into the questions of free will that arise as a consequence.

Whether you believe that logical contradictions are relevant to the real world or not, there is an even bigger question behind the time travel paradox, and that is why does time have the direction it does in any case? Why is the past, the past and the future, the future? Part of the answer might be that for humankind in this part of the universe, time’s arrow points in the usual direction, but under different circumstances it could point in the reverse direction.

Tocantins investigates the reversal of one important aspect of time’s arrow—the direction of living. Unless you’re prepared to believe quite a few more than six impossible things before breakfast, the beings that live backward in the story can’t exist, but one basic requirement of living backward is covered. Lifeforms on earth consume energy in various forms and turn it to various purposes. Reversal in time means that this becomes emission of energy, and just as plants absorb sunlight, the beings in the story give off a golden light.

About the Author

Steve Simpson lives with the wood ducks in Sydney, Australia. He took up writing when the neighbours complained about the bagpipes, and his stories have appeared in various magazines and anthologies. His hobbies include experiments with time travel and the creation of negative light, digital art, and research on epileptic seizure detection. You can find Steve’s work online at inconstantlight.com

SCIENCE FICTION AND ITS PAST RELATIONS WITH THE ACADEMY

Victor Grech, Clare Vassallo and Ivan Callus

‘What was once … a secret movement has become part of the cultural wallpaper’

SF authors have traditionally spurned the disdain of critics who ‘sneer the ineradicable sneer’ at SF authors and assert that SF is too shallow for serious consideration, and such critics have been in turn accused of being ‘ignorant or afraid of science […] rejecting […] the universe in favor of a small human circle, limited in time and place to their own lifetimes’.1 In some ways, SF partakes of some of the properties of fantastic literature, as defined by Todorov,2 insofar as SF leads us to worlds that do not exist, and with readerly agreement, the narratee is ‘transported to a scenario more magical and uplifting than the real, coarse everyday world’.3 Tolkien calls this combination of fantastic, miraculous deliverance and poignant eucatastrophe, the sense of evangelium, a means with which authors impart good news and happy endings.4 This accords with Frederic Jameson’s contention that SF ‘give us ‘images’ of the future […] but rather defamiliarize [s] and restructure [s] our experience of our own present’.5

However, until recently, in the eyes of the academy, SF was treated with a degree of disdain by the assemblage of ‘serious’ mainstream and classical literature. Matters are confused by the fact that SF is inherently dichotomous, both authoritarian and antiauthoritarian, the former due to its traditionally male dominated leanings and its overall hard science slant, and the latter as it is antiestablishment and anticanon.

It was thus for decades that the genre was marginalised and relegated to a subordinate role in literature studies, for being ersatz and escapist. However, ‘the real universe is […] too small […] for the expansion of escapist dreams, so SF has invented a lot of other universes’,6 and this is a major attraction to the SF writer, who has almost carte blanche for his creations. But despite being perceived as somehow ‘inferior’ and actively stigmatised and viewed with hostility by traditionalists, many SF works tend to be intertextual and engage recognised and acclaimed canonical texts, as already discussed, and conversely, a multitude of traditionally canonical texts engage icons and tropes that are typically associated with SF. Luckhurst remarks that there is a ‘sense that SF has been ignored, ridiculed or undervalued’ resulting in repeated attempts by readers and authors alike ‘to carve out a ‘respectable canon’.7

This has been acknowledged by the academy with a relatively recent revival of SF studies, including several journals (such as Science Fiction Studies) with a broadening of the margins of the canon in order to deliberately embrace SF works. However, these efforts remain mired in controversy by virtue of their leanings and selections of texts for inclusion within the canon, a ploy that results in the continuing marginalization of many traditional SF works that engage hard science and are not deemed literary enough.

The first serious academic study of the genre was by the British novelist Kingsley Amis, who also famously championed other marginal writings including Fleming’s James Bond series. Amis ‘was clearly inspired by the idea of making science fiction appear ‘respectable’, by giving it a distinguished ancestry and by giving it a clear social purpose’.8 This arguably constituted an attempt at rehabilitation from a genre born within particularly lurid pulp covers of the 1930s and 1940s magazines that frequently depicted scantily-clad maidens attired in brass underwear,9 menaced by repugnant, bug-eyed aliens while being liberated by square-jawed heroes, the covers were invariably far more lurid than the magazines’ contents, paralleling contemporary prejudices. Indeed, the perpetrator, Earle K. Bergey, was quite renowned for his magazine cover art that frequently portrayed implausible female costumes, including the classic brass brassieres. SF’s image of the time was strongly associated with his Startling Stories magazine covers for 1942-1952.10

When invited to Princeton to deliver the Christian Gauss lectures in 1959, Amis chose to speak about SF which he likened to jazz, an underappreciated American art form. These lectures were published as New Maps of Hell (1960).11 Amis was particularly taken with the humorous dystopias created by Sheckley and the ‘trademark of both Pohl’s stories and his collaborations with Cyril Kornbluth to turn capitalist systems against themselves’,12 as in The Space Merchants (1953) which heavily satirised capitalist systems of advertising, marketing and the resulting excesses of the worst possible consumerism.13

Such earnest attention from a mainstream figure naturally enhanced SF’s reputation, particularly when it was followed by several SF anthologies, co-edited by Amis and drawn heavily from Campbell’s Astounding. Furthermore, a tape-recorded discussion on SF took place between Amis, Brian Aldiss and C. S. Lewis, and this was eventually published among Lewis’s work.14 It was also around this time that the first SF critical journal Extrapolation was launched.15 Amis also eventually went on to write two alternate-history SF novels, The Alteration (1976)16 and Russian Hide-and-Seek (1980),17 an interesting choice of SF trope as although mainstream fiction is mimetic of the real world, it too occasionally utilises traditionally SF threads, such as alternate endings, as famously shown, for example, in John Fowles’ The French Lieutenant’s Woman (1969).18

New Maps of Hell, while daring for its time, now seems faintly condescending with low expectations for characterisation and for the very prose itself and while it ‘supplied critical depth, […] lacked breadth […], high on theory but low on detail’.19 Amis’s rather shallow support for SF became evident with the advent of New Wave SF in the 1960s which centred round the New Worlds magazine after Michael Moorcock assumed editorial control in 1963. The most important exponents of this predominantly British movement were Aldiss, Ballard and Moorcock.20 Ballard in particular occupied a ‘weirdly undecidable location […], never fully inside or outside of the SF world’,21 in his literature that contrives to be the ‘union of speculative fiction and the literary avant-garde’.22

Keep Reading

BE CAREFUL WHAT YOU WISH FOR

Jeffrey G. Roberts

I stand looking into my open grave. Except it isn’t in the beautiful white sandy beach I find myself on, but above me – some 5000 feet. Like a wound in the sky, I stare at it; it stares back at me – eternal, immortal, frozen in time. The old phrase, ‘what happens when an immovable object meets an irresistible force’ always intrigued me. No more. Now I know. I know – because I caused this. Not God, not the devil, not malevolent nations. Me.

I could warn all the girls on my private island. I could tell my servants and staff to run. I could email everyone on the face of the Earth, to take cover – doomsday is upon us! But what would be the point? They couldn’t hear me anyway. And they never will. For an eternity. The only one that can hear me, the only one I can talk to – is my own reflection. The Earth is silent – except for me.

No, God didn’t cause this, though some might disagree. But he sure as hell is punishing me for it. The ultimate punishment. I’ve run it over and over in my head a million times as I lie on my bed at night, and stare out at the silent stars; at a world made mute by my arrogance. And I wake up the next morning to the birds, frozen in mid-flight. And I have no more answers than I did the night before. Or a thousand soul-searching nights before that. I’m in hell! And I made it, all by myself. Could I have changed anything? Sure. I could have decided to be a decent human being, instead of the son-of-a-bitch I turned into. And now I’m paying the price for it. Oh dear God, please let me go back to the beginning!

“Mr. Bingston, would you be so kind as to input this data on subjects 6-15 into the mainframe?”

“Of course, Dr. McFarland,” the senior technician answered, as he walked up to his superior.

“We’re paid to work here at D.A.R.P.A., Mr. Bingston,” he said sarcastically. “Not to eat. Your last break was three minutes over. Besides, I think you could afford to forego a few donut breaks,” he added, mocking Charles Bingston, as he patted the technician’s stomach.

“Of course, Dr. McFarland.” ‘You royal pain in the ass,’ he thought bitterly. He despised the man; his arrogance, his conceit, and his constant belittling of him, as a sort of indentured servant. ‘I didn’t get straight A’s in college to be treated like a slave. I swear, McFarland, one more sarcastic remark, one more insult…’ Charles Bingston could feel his muscles tightening and his teeth clench, as he began inputting the data. ‘Isn’t there some obscure law in this state against murder? Pity.’

There were 50 scientists & technicians working on this secret “black” research program at D.A.R.P.A., but for some inexplicable reason Dr. Ross McFarland seemed to focus his animosity and sarcasm on Charles Bingston. Charles had no idea why – and he didn’t care. He just wanted it to stop. And if it didn’t, he had the germ of a plan to make it stop – and discredit McFarland at the same time.

Unfortunately, he could air his bitterness to no one. This particular D.A.R.P.A. “black” program was so radical, so revolutionary, and so secret, that it was absolutely forbidden to discuss what went on here. To anyone. To do so would result in the most dire of consequences.

Once every six months the top brass from the Pentagon would review all relevant black projects in question; to assess their progress, to see how many untraceable billions might have to be further pumped into them, and to determine their relevance in strategic military operations. Bright and early on a Wednesday morning, they came. There were 12 of them, with so much “fruit salad” on their chests, and “scrambled eggs” on their hats, it looked like a buffet. Dr. McFarland had gathered his scientists and technicians together, just before their arrival. It was supposed to be a pep talk, but as was his style, it was more of a dressing down – and he was looking right at Charles Bingston, with an accusatory stare. “Just keep your mouths shut and don’t say a word, unless they address you directly. And if one of them does, direct the question to me. Is that understood?” All nodded affirmatively. “Bingston, get me a cup of coffee. I missed my breakfast. Chop-chop!”

“Yes sir.” ‘Glad to, Dr. McFarland. Will that be one lump of cyanide or two?’

It was a lab quite unlike anything the Pentagon had ever seen before. They suspected something truly strange was going on here. ‘This isn’t science,’ one Lieutenant thought. ‘This looks more like “para-science”!’

“General Butler,” McFarland began, “welcome to Project Tempus. The 28 men and women in these glass containers are the refuse of society, the dregs of the populace. I assure you, they won’t be missed,” he said curtly, referring to his tablet.

“Are they alive?” Gen. Butler asked.

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“Yes sir. But just barely. They are monitored 24/7, so that we may know the exact moment of their deaths. They are all terminal. But I assure you, they are in no pain.”

“What purpose will their deaths serve, Dr. McFarland?” the General’s aide inquired.

“Their purpose, ironically, will be to part the veil between this world and the next, and capture the energy between the two dimensions.”

There was an unsettling murmuring amongst the assembled brass.

“As you can see,” he continued, “there is a quantum computer atop each glass capsule. Surrounding the head of each capsule is a confined magnetic field. You see, there are seven energy fields in the human aura. It is postulated that the highest of these morphogenetic levels – the seventh – has to do with that frequency popularly known – as the soul. This frequency transcends normal time & space. We believe it is the key.”

“The key to what?” Gen. Butler asked nervously.

“To the afterlife, General!”

Now there was stunned silence.

‘I think I’m going to vomit,’ Charles thought.

“Do we plan an invasion of heaven? No, of course not,” McFarland continued. “That is wading into waters far too deep even for us. But consider this: everyone who has been through a near death experience, or NDE, as well as every verifiable psychic medium who has made contact with ‘the other side’, has remarked on the absence of time in that realm. The passage of time to an immortal is irrelevant. But just how does time cease once you cross over?” He walked over to one of the capsules containing a very old and very sickly man, looked down at his tablet, and tapped the magnetic field apparatus encircling his head. “The frequency of that 7th level, we believe, is the key all souls take with them, to initiate the cessation of time in that dimension – heaven, if you will. It is a particle we have dubbed the Tempus Particle. And this device, on each of the capsules, will capture it before it can sail off into that other plane of existence. We will then transfer it into a portable magnetic bottle for study.”

“Aren’t you worried that you’re playing God, Dr.?” the General’s aide asked.

“Someone has to, young man. Someone has to,” he answered matter-of-factly.

“Let’s assume you can isolate this Tempus Particle,” the General wondered, walking among the capsules of comatose and forgotten individuals, who now, even in death would have no peace. “Towards what end, Dr.?”

“Oh come now, General. You’re a military man. Think of the possibilities! Unleashing the Tempus Particle, in a controlled way, here on Earth, instead of in the afterlife? The ability to stop time? Why, you could freeze whole armies in their tracks, then kill them with impunity. These unfortunate souls,” he said, waving his arm about the giant facility, “will have given the ultimate scientific contribution, ensuring that their sacrifice will guarantee consistent victory for our forces in any engagement.” He then made a few taps on his tablet.

‘What does he have on that, that’s not on the main frame,’ Charles wondered. ‘I think I know. Yeah, consistent victory, while you condemn them to an eternity wandering the Earth in torment, you fat son-of-a-bitch!’ he thought.

Whatever bug McFarland had up his butt towards Bingston only intensified in the weeks to come. But it reached a head one day, when Charles handed him a wrong piece of equipment.

“What’s wrong with you, Bingston? Were you born stupid, or did you attain it in slow degrees over time? Hell, I could hire a trained monkey to do what you do!”

And that did it. It was the final straw. He would bring this little Hitler down, end his reign of abuse toward him and others, and put an end to the heartless, if not blasphemous, experiment known as Project Tempus.

Ross McFarland may have been a senior scientist at D.A.R.P.A., but Charles Bingston was one of the top engineering technicians in the country. He knew the schematics of the revolutionary portable magnetic bottle, inside and out. And, given enough time, he could fabricate one himself. Which is just what he proceeded to do; bit by bit, component by component. It took him six months, but now he was ready for phase I of his grand plan to rid the world of the malignancy of Project Tempus. And its reprehensible architect.

He had come to the lab one night on graveyard shift, ostensibly to catch up on some unfinished work, before McFarland found out. But he had allies here – for McFarland was universally despised.

“Evening, Jim.”

“Evening, Mr. Bingston. Burning the midnight oil again?”

“It never ends, Jim. Some loose ends I’ve got to input – before Dr. McFarland finds out.”

The guard shuddered in mock disgust. “Oh, we sure wouldn’t want that, would we?”

Walking to the main clinic lab, the first thing he did, outside of the reach of the security cameras, was to initiate a continuous feedback loop. This way, any review of the past 24-hour shift would show no one in the clinic at this hour – which was as it should be.

He had devised a complex mathematical probability algorithm, which would predict, with 93.2% accuracy, which one of the 28 poor souls assembled here in their futuristic capsules, would expire first. His heart was pounding as the minutes ticked by. He prayed his equations were correct. He didn’t have long to wait.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” he said quietly, stopping in front of one glass container. It held an elderly woman who looked to be in her 90’s. A red light was blinking atop the tube’s energy field apparatus, indicating she had just passed. Her Tempus Particle – her key to heaven – cruelly snatched from her soul and stored in a magnetic containment vessel. “I will find out who you were. You were not a number. You were a human being, with a family somewhere, hopes, and dreams. I swear, your sacrifice will guarantee this atrocity will end. I’ll find you all. I promise. Because I now know where he keeps your names. Like sick trophies. Again, forgive me, ma’am.” And he took out from his briefcase the magnetic bottle he had so carefully assembled over the past six months. He connected it to the containment field of subject # 523318, and with an eerie flash of light – stole a piece of God’s creation, as her Tempus Particle transferred into Charles’s bottle. At this point he suddenly became truly frightened for the first time – over the implications of what he had just done. Was he now no better than McFarland, he feared? But he shook the thought out of his head. There was work to be done. The particle glowed in the translucent bottle with a soft green eeriness. There were three sets of numbers on the bottle now. One showed the frequency of the 7th energy level – the Tempus Particle. The second was the frequency of the energy field in which we all live – Earth. And the third showed an energy frequency no human had ever seen, nor comprehended before – the frequency of the afterlife plane – heaven! Two were flashing wildly, trying to resonate with each other: the afterlife frequency and the old woman’s Tempus Particle frequency; her key to heaven. But for the first time in creation, they could not resonate, because the Tempus Particle was now trapped in our dimension. But slowly, inexorably, the numbers began to slow down, trying to match and resonate with Earth’s frequency. Within minutes, they did. The numbers for both the Earth plane and the Tempus Particle now matched! Heaven lost out this time. Could Charles Bingston use the power of the gods wisely? He was about to find out. His magnetic bottle was actually two magnetic fields in one container. The first field contained the Tempus Particle, and it was impenetrable. Nothing could escape it. The secondary field acted as a mirror, reflecting the particle’s energy into the world – but not the particle itself.

Now was the moment of truth. He depressed the secondary field emitter button. He began to feel dizzy for a few moments, then recovered. He prayed her particle was not sentient, as a white light began to permeate everything around him. He could not see, it was so bright. But soon the glow faded, and the world – stood still! Birds in mid-flight, airplanes, people, animals, everything froze in their places. And Charles walked out of the D.A.R.P.A. complex, passed frozen security guards, and graveyard shift employees. Once in his car, he pressed the primary field emitter button. And as the energy turned back on itself and retreated into the confines of the magnetic bottle – the world sprang back to life, none the worse for wear, and none the wiser.

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He knew what he had to do. And he knew where he had to go.

He could feel the rage building up in him as he approached the house. Mansions, Olympic-sized swimming pools, and BMW’s & Mercedes were in abundance. Charles Bingston had no inherent animosity towards the wealthy. But with Ross McFarland he made an exception. As far as he was concerned McFarland gained his upper class style of living on the backs of good researchers – and the souls of unfortunate citizens. His lack of remorse was as profound as his penchant for personal gain.

And there it was. A three-story Tudor mansion, with expansive grounds, gardens, and a new Mercedes and Audi in the circular driveway.

“Time to end your reign of terror, McFarland.” He held up the bottle, and with a blinding flash the Earth again went silent. Walking inside the palatial residence, he went straight to the master bedroom. And there he laid, fast asleep, his wife next to him. “Ah yes. Miranda,” he said with disdain. “The warlock’s familiar, I presume?” His tablet lay on the roll top desk. Charles picked it up, scrolled through it and, as he suspected, soon found what he was looking for. “Faceless no more. Real people. Real lives.” Then he found her. “You’re not # 523318, are you? No, you’re Emily Barkan. I’ll never forget you.” He copied the names, and then left. And as he drove away, the world awakened once more.

Several weeks later he resigned his position at D.A.R.P.A. and Project Tempus. He could have told Ross McFarland precisely what he thought of him, but dared not let his hatred of the man arouse undue suspicions. For truly, Charles Bingston was not yet done with his former boss.

A month later, following his carefully thought out timing, he sent an untraceable communication to the head of the Department of Justice, complete with the names of all the poor souls McFarland’s group had kidnapped, and the macabre details behind Project Tempus. No doubt the good doctor would not see the light of day for quite some time.

McFarland never did solve the puzzle of how subject # 523318 could have expired, without the monitors catching it, or how her Tempus Particle was not automatically captured. Somehow it, and her, sailed off into the next plane of existence. Yes, that must have been it. It nearly drove him out of his mind, probably contributing to a raging ulcer. Charles figured it couldn’t have happened to a nicer guy. Wait until the D.O.J. guys come knocking on his door! He giggled at the thought, wishing he could be a fly on the wall. ‘Remember Ross: don’t drop the soap at Leavenworth,’ he thought. And began laughing harder.

In time he reveled in his victory. He had single-handedly brought down a boss that made Leona Helmsley look like Mr. Rogers.

But perhaps the old adage is true: an idle mind may very well be the devil’s playground. No man is wise enough or good enough to be trusted with unlimited power. And that is what faced Charles Bingston one cold, crisp afternoon, as he began tweaking and editing his resume. And as he sat in front of his computer he noticed, out of the corner of his eye, two things: his bank statement on the desk – and his briefcase on the floor. The former was the problem – the latter contained the solution.

“Are you out of your mind?” he said to himself. “Didn’t I just use the Tempus Particle to take down a monster? Now you expect me to use it to feather my own nest? Disgusting!” But he looked down at his bank statement – quickly dwindling. And as he gazed out the window, wracking his brain for answers, he spotted something down the street that did indeed provide an answer. And he recoiled in horror at the implications. Yet the more he thought about it, the horror subsided, eventually replaced with a rhetorical ‘Why not?’ For what he saw – was a bank. ‘Absolutely nobody would be harmed,’ he justified to himself. ‘The F.D.I.C. insures the bank, and its depositors. Miss Emily Barkan, we may just have one more date together.’

Did Charles Bingston know the phrase, ‘Power corrupts, and absolute power corrupts absolutely’? If he did he didn’t care right now. He had found a solution to one of his problems. And no one at all would be hurt. Where was the harm in that, he reasoned? His conscience was clear. Sadly, that might have been the most dangerous attribute of all.

By the time he had finished his spree, he had amassed a fortune. And to his word, not one soul was ever harmed. This emboldened him. And so began the gradual slide into hedonism. He fancied himself a god; a god who could stop time and walk the Earth a creator. No secrets could be kept from him; no guards could stop him. Indeed, he put his god-like power to good use, traveling the world, seeing the sights he once only dreamt of. And if he could steal governmental secrets from the intelligence services of various countries, and then anonymously blackmail them – all the better.

By now he’d outgrown the dingy home he had lived in for ten years. He bought himself a private island, and lived the life of a king. He had any woman he wanted – and he always wanted more; eventually growing tired of them in favor of some new plaything. He equated them with his vast wine cellar, filled with rare vintages; literally unobtainable. Except for him. His girls, like his wine, were his possessions. And true to his word, he walked the island a creator. “Here, I am God!” he boasted. And so he was.

One bright and beautiful morning on Bingston Island, he was strolling the white sandy beach of his own private empire. And as he waded through the turquoise surf, the fur on the hem of his custom-made royal robe trailed behind him in the water. Today was a good day to do what he loved most – surveying all that he saw, knowing it was all his.

He stretched out on one of the many hammocks he had erected on his island, and dwelled on the pressing issues of the day – such as what should he have his chefs prepare for dinner, and which girls should he invite to the later soirée at the main estate. It was a good life. He put his drink down on a little table next to the hammock, and shut his eyes. The waves, the sea birds, the coconut palms, the girls – all his.

But within a minute he became annoyed. “What cloud dares block the sun on Bingston Island?” he said angrily. He opened his eyes, even as the wind began to pick up. And when he did, a feeling of incomprehensible horror washed over him, the likes of which neither he, nor any other human, had ever experienced before. For what he saw, still five miles in the sky, literally shredded his soul, as it blotted out the sun.

He jumped up, shrieking in abject terror. Could he make it back to the main house in time? He had to! He thought his heart would burst, his lungs would explode. He tripped and fell once on a rock, and shed his kingly robes in order to run faster. He was running in just his underwear now. Bloody and screaming, he made it to the house in record Olympic time. Tripping once more on the floor, he lunged for his briefcase. Barely stopping for a breath he thought he’d have a heart attack, as he exploded with it out of the house. Before he even got back to the beach he frantically took out the Tempus Particle magnetic bottle, pointed it at the sky – and pressed the button. The passage of time across the entire planet, as well as everything in its atmosphere – stopped dead. Including what was now 5000 feet overhead. The sky had turned blood red, the wind almost hurricane strength, and the ocean was threatening to destroy Bingston Island, should the passage of time resume. And what was causing this horror lay at the center of it all – now silent and malignant – and waiting. It was a meteor the size of Rhode Island! This would not just cause a titanic crater. This was a planet killer. The end of everything. The end of Earth. The end of Man.

Charles Bingston looked up at it, as it cast a blood red shadow across his face. He got down on his hands and knees and pounded his fists against the ground, tears streaming down his face. “No! No! No!” He shook his fist at Earth’s assassin. “This is my world! This is my island! But I’ve stopped you, you bastard from hell! Me! Charles Bingston! I am god here! I stopped you! You have no power over me! You have…” And he stopped in mid-sentence, and let out a shriek of terror that originated from the depths of his soul. He looked out at the ocean waves, now frozen, the birds stopped like air-borne statues, his staff and girlfriends fleeing in abject horror, eternally in the now. And not since God decided to destroy the world once, millennia ago, had any human faced the same horrific choice. Until now.

“I dared play God,” he whimpered. And this is His vengeance. I have my island and everything in it. All my people are here. And they’re mine – frozen for eternity! I am totally and completely alone!” He began to cry bitterly again. “No! No! I can’t die! Not like this! I can live on my island, the last man on Earth,” he lamented between tears. “Or push this little button on the magnetic bottle, and be vaporized along with the rest of humanity! Oh dear God, forgive my arrogance! What do I do? What do I do! Have mercy!”

And through his tears he noticed something, and wondered why he had never seen it before. It was a very large boulder on the edge of the beach. And somehow, someone had prophetically painted two words on it. And when Charles Bingston read them, he promptly went mad. The two words were – DECISIONS, DECISIONS.

Food for Thought

It is said power corrupts; and absolute power corrupts absolutely. And those that attempt to wear the mantle of God commit the ultimate in hubris. Do we have the right? No matter what the motives, nor how pure of heart we may be in wielding the power of the gods, it must always end in unmitigated horror. Mankind is not smart enough, nor wise enough, to play God. Will science eventually, in the decades to come, advance to levels so fearful, that the exercise of such technological power will be like forbidden fruit to all but the most pious? In W.W.I, we thought the invention of poison gas, the airplane, and tanks, would make war so horrible as to be impossible. And yet, it was tantalizing fruit for evil men. How will that question be put forth in the 22nd century and beyond? These are murky waters even I fear to tread, and will quietly slip away.

About the Author

Born in New York City,

Jeffrey G. Roberts has written numerous short stories, and has 2 novels available on Amazon – THE HEALER and CHERRIES IN WINTER. He writes in the genres of science fiction, fantasy, horror, and fantasy/comedy. He has a life-long interest in Mars, the truth about UFO’s, the paranormal, and aerospace. He is a graduate of Northern Arizona University, in Flagstaff, Arizona, and now resides in Tucson, Arizona. He blogs at atalespinner.weebly.com

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THE HEMINGWAY HUNTER

E.J. Shumak

If someone is lucky enough to leave behind quotes when they exit this physical plane, they are often unlucky enough to be judged and remembered by them.

“There is no hunting like the hunting of man, and those who have hunted armed men long enough and liked it, never care for anything else thereafter.”

Ernest Hemingway A Farewell to Arms All italicized quotes credit Hemingway

After travelling more than six hundred miles, Jim Ritchie is road-weary and Mopar seat-sore. He knows what to expect, this is his eighth time. Seven Hemingways cleanly killed.

“What can we do for you today sir?” asks the ginger kid behind the counter.

“I need a six-hour Hemingway.”

“Six-hour, are you sure?”

“Unless you discount me further for less time.”

“Sorry sir, I can’t do that, but perhaps a discount on a different target, perhaps a J.D. Salinger, or even a Jack London, they seem challenging? You have bested several Hemingways. Perhaps a different encounter could increase your level of satisfaction?”

“Look, are you here to argue with me?

“No, sir, my apologies. However, several million people worship him.”

“Several million are wrong – should I go elsewhere?”

“So sorry, no—no; what weaponry?”

“A pre-64 Winchester model 70 in 25-06 Remington with a Leopold 2 to 7. Don’t tell me you don’t have it, I know better. At these prices I should have Zeus’ own lightningbolt.”

Smiling, Ginger Kid says, “We can do that too, if you’d like. May I have your left wrist for payment?” The hunter extended his left arm, palm up, exposing the location of the embedded EEPROM chip. “Oh, AMEX platinum. You are entitled to a cabin upgrade.”

“Wonderful. As you mentioned I won’t be spending any time in my cabin. I only have the six hours to dispatch him.”

“Your equipment and supplies are being delivered now and will arrive before you. Your pass code is on your chip and you are in cabin 27. Have a great hunt.”

“Not fruitful?”

“Not all great hunts need be fruitful, sir. We only desire your satisfaction.”

“Right.”

Less than forty-five minutes later Ritchie is walking out of his cabin, heading to sector 37-b where his Hemingway is supposed to be; the Hemingway supposedly armed with a custom Springfield 35 Whelen from Griffin & Howe. “Well, up and down from the original 30-06.” He opens up the eight foot cube of a blind and sits down to wait. Experience tells him the Hemingways never just sit still.

I rub the back of my neck, irritating the crèche plug.

“That’s where we pump in the Hemingway — along with your growth nourishment.” So I was told in the crèche. I remember the words and the lilted tone, but not how I heard them. I can smell the here and now, but I cannot remember the smells of the crèche. The grass and wildflowers beneath my feet are sweet and mild, while the G96 treatment on the rifle coupled with the wooden stock’s linseed oil finish compete with nature for my olfactory attention. Nature wins, but just barely.

They told me my DNA-sake’s wit, wisdom and weapon craft came to me the same way as my physical nourishment. But why don’t I remember any smells. Well, I do remember weapon craft and the smells associated with that. I retain the tactile erudition of firearm care and usage. Or is it memory? Hell, why do I torture myself this way? I will never truthfully discern the difference.

I just cannot think of myself as Ernest or even Hemingway. I know I am Hemingway MKVII–42, or 42 as my crèche mates called me. The only time I was happy, with my mates; “crèche mates” like litter mates – I’m really just a kitten, not a Hemingway after all.

I reach into my pocket and pull out four cartridges, real ones. The headstamp reads LC—62. After all these years there still remains a “cordite” smell emanating from them. I know it is not truly cordite, but it is the only way I have learned to describe the combination of nitro-cellulose and nitro-glycerin coupled with metal seeping from unknowable microscopic or atomic gaps in the cartridge structure. I only know what a rifle cartridge smells like and I suspect they have smelled that way since 1846. Why in hell do I know that year?

I found the cartridges secreted in my storage tube, the tiny ex-hotel “capsules” they salvaged from Tokyo hotels – home sweet home. The cartridges are apparently a gift from a previous MKVII. I’ll remember him – me – somehow. I gently cradle the rifle (another crèche memory or memory reference? – I never really know). I open the bolt and load the four precious cartridges in through the top.

The saw I found myself, while I walked the woods. I’m still amazed they let us do that between hunts. Perhaps they think it will make us believe we have a real life. Not a metal saw, but it was rated all purpose, or so it was emblazoned on the shank. Naval jelly had once, probably many many years ago, been used to clean it and the strong acidic (phosphoric acid) smell remained along with apparently significant rust protection.

It took me forty-two hours to cut off the end of the hardened 4140 carbon steel barrel using that rusty, smelly, old saw, but I finally cleared off the welded portion of the rifle. The saw was probably over fifty years old – the rifle hadn’t been manufactured in more than one hundred – a fair match I suppose.

The saw and I converted the weapon back to functionality, allowing the rifle to resume its lethal purpose, permitting it to actually fire a round. The welded and plugged end of the barrel and the electronic tracking crap was now gone; the rifle once again a “real” 35 Whelan G&H. I suspect the “real” Hemingway would have been pleased.

It is easy to see the blind: but not the obverse for my adversary. Even if the hunter is looking through the port cut into the timbers, it is physically impossible for him (Why him? – well it usually wasn’t a woman) to see me. The angles are for the hunter’s safety, not for field of view. The 35 Whelan would cut right through the timbers. I “remember,” is that what this is? — the cartridge was a ‘brush buster’. I hold left and low from the upper blind port. I must not damage the guy’s chip and I really don’t particularly care to kill him either. I don’t understand why or how, but it just didn’t feel right to take this life unnecessarily. But it does feel right to shoot this man and claim freedom – even for a short time. Looking through the peep sight, I squeeze the trigger on the Griffin & Howe. Nothing. Great – hang fire or dead primer.

I wait patiently. Hell, the ammo is well over a hundred years old. It could be a dead or oil corrupted primer, moisture soaked powder or primer, or anything in-between. A hang fire would simply be a late ignition. If I open the bolt too soon I could lose a hand, or even my face. Ten nano-centuries pass (or ten pi seconds) then twenty – I hold on target. Lowering the rifle and working the bolt, I catch the cartridge as the claw extractor in the bolt’s full cartridge head support, pulls it from the chamber and the rectangular ejector pops back, sending the cartridge slapping into my upside down palm, my fingers closing tightly around it.

Solid primer hit, at least the gun seems to be functioning. I put it in my pocket, that may be unwise, but I can’t bring myself to discard something that has been so hard to acquire. Working a fresh round into the chamber with the bolt handle, the extractor now grabbing the cartridge head solidly and guiding it into the chamber, I once again gaze through the Parker Hale PH5a aperture sight.

This time when I squeeze the trigger, the Griffin & Howe barks, bucking back into my shoulder with a satisfying snap. I smell the satisfying odor of burnt gunpowder and primer residue. My ears ring so loudly I am effectively deaf. Why didn’t I remember that little tidbit of weapon craft?

This time it worked. The 220 grain slug blasts through the lower edge of the upper port in the blind. I imagine hearing the gratifying thump as the hunter’s body folds up. I wait. It seems the woods grow silent. I see no movement anywhere and can only hear the ringing in my ears, the left much worse than the right. The nitro-cellulose still hangs heavy in the air, blocking any sense of smell.

I quickly rack the bolt, reloading the 35 Whelan and slicing a thin piece of my left thumb in the process, the extractor and bolt head closing on and pinching my skin. Apparently my weapon craft is less than perfect. As I fully stand, the firearm discharge smells dissipate: I can now again smell the oil on the Griffin & Howe coupled with a metallic blood scent from my thumb and the surrounding wild grasses and flora..

I hike the one hundred fifty yards to the blind. Kicking in the door, I level the Griffin & Howe at the hunter. No movement. Leaning down, I immediately notice a steady and solid breathing pattern – and a lot of blood – the copper metallic odor filling the small blind. The copper jacketed slug held together and expanded only slightly on exit through the blind wall. Once through the wall and into the hunter, entry is just above the right lung and bodily exit through the lower scapula.

I pull out the misfired 35 Whelan cartridge, using it to plug the entry wound. It seems to squeeze in nicely and appears to be holding. I manage to insert it far enough for the 17 degree shoulder angle to catch on something internal to this guy’s wound. It can’t be inserted further without extreme pressure. It does seem unlikely to dislodge on its own. Well, half done. The exit wound will be a bit more difficult. I just hope the hunter remains unconscious, at least for a bit longer.

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