The Artist

From the right distance, the devastation looks suitably picturesque. The smoke lies like a vast steel-gray blanket, gently billowed and softened by the miles, over the city that now lies forever beyond purpose.

Jagged spires of tormented metal claw despairingly into the burning sky, black on red - the frozen death throes of a majestic leviathan in a blood-frothed sea.

The client is most satisfied with my latest delivery; his gratitude more valuable, in certain ways, than mere coin. Personally, I just feel that it is slovenly - degrading even - to carry out this job without due concern for the best aesthetics.

Thy Perfect Light

Shuddering horribly, the spaceliner launched from the doomed station and joined the mass exodus. Commander Haywood checked his ship's environmental systems. Every spare cubic meter was crammed with people; the air purifiers were redlining.

Ahead, wormhole openings flashed like blazing baubles. Behind, the sun's treacherous core continued its irreversible collapse. They had just minutes left before the supernova would consume the system.

As Haywood initiated the hyperspace sequence, he thought about the cataclysm's light that would, in time, shine throughout the galaxy. On what undiscovered worlds would it be heralded by infant civilisations as a beacon above their newborn saviours?

Hunt

It was a Thursday afternoon when the sun went out. The world was immediately plunged into darkness, although the street lights around Harper flicked on a moment later.

"Dammit!" he swore. It was quickly becoming cold, and Harper knew that much of the planet's life would die out in a matter of weeks. Of course, the star had actually extinguished eight minutes earlier - they were only just now seeing the effects.

Not that it mattered.

Harper gazed up at the night (day!) sky, and sighed wearily. Ten days of expensive simulation time wasted, and no closer to finding the bug.

Remembrance

The skullcap interface of the Time Machine is tight and cold; I try to relax and form the scene correctly in my mind. It had been a clear night, with the aerocity's buildings floating around us like incandescent bubbles. Emma, still giggly from the wine, nestled in my arm.

"That one!" She pointed, bouncing on her toes. "We'll live there."

The Machine's humming reaches a crescendo, then unexpectedly declines.

<< Error: worldline match failed. >>

<< Unable to locate spacetime event. >>

My last hope dies. I am left in the present with hazy nostalgia - that changes on each recollection - my only solace now.

Homecoming

“Promise me you’ll come back,” his wife had pleaded, “whatever it takes.”

Captain Baker studied the viewscreen image of the Celestia asteroid base. Over fifty thousand men, women and children called it home. The military called it ‘strategically vital to the war effort.’ 

At Baker’s terse command, the antimatter missiles were unleashed. Rock and flesh alike boiled into space as, briefly, the light of two suns burned in the system.

*   *   *

She ran forward as her husband – at last – walked through the door. He’d survived! But when she saw his eyes she stopped, for who had returned she did not know.

Adherence

A small break in the relentless drizzle allowed a spear of sunlight through, splintering on the rain-lashed carriage window. If it hadn't been for that brief scintillation rousing him from his melancholy, he would have missed her. Emily was, like him, alone and preoccupied. And as beautiful as she had always been.

He watched as the locomotive started to move, taking her away from him again. He couldn't follow; the cold stone of the platform anchored his spirit, and she was unable to perceive him in any case.

The clouds of steam billowed, more substantial than he would ever be.

Arena

A sudden sprint, crouch just so, leap into an inverted pirouette, and voila! Deft hands found their mark - a double slap that blurred into one motion. Her opponent slumped and the crowd roared their appreciation. Unbelievable! She was the underdog; money changed hands frantically.

Turn, tuck-jump over the clumsy battering-ram of its arm swung blindly behind it, and then a series of gouging, twisting knuckles up its back. The huge form went prostrate, its groan a rich bass that reverberated through the wildly-cheering spectators.

The fight of the year: the Combat Masseuse versus The Stone Golem . . . and they were there!

_____________________________________
[Thanks to Tim Whitten for the idea.]

Inchoate Love

As he glances in her direction she looks away quickly, her eyes hiding behind the swirl of black hair. She has gazed at him for too long again, and curses herself.

Wait.

She bites her lip, summoning courage, and peeks out gingerly. He isn't watching. His hangers-on - all girls, of course - have finally gone.

Deep breath.

Move.

He turns to look at her as she reaches him, a quizzical half-smile lighting his face. The knife enters his chest more easily than she expects, sliding between his ribs and opening his heart.

She marvels as those beautiful eyes turn to glass.

Solitary Confinement

Blackness. Silence. I can’t feel anything either. Or move. So - they think that mere sensory deprivation will break me? My resolve far outstrips theirs. We’ll see who lasts the longest...

*   *   *

Bill paused in his cleaning, right by the heavy door that was always locked. Except, today it wasn’t. He’d always wondered what lay behind it, the ominous sign stating ‘Indefinite Detention’ serving only to pique his curiosity.

Daringly, he peeked into the chamber. The sight of rows of glass cylinders containing fluid and, clearly, human brains bristling with wires sent him hastily away. After all, curiosity could kill the cat.

Just Cause

Cara looked out across the assembled throng. She had to admit, she was impressed with the size of the gathering and what it represented. The Core Systems Empire had put a lot of effort into this achievement. All those different planets, governments, races – bitter enemies – setting aside their differences to build something greater.

There had been sacrifices. Or rather, they had sacrificed people, when required, to make this happen. They were good at that – ‘doing what needed to be done’.

Well, so was the Alliance.

So was she.

Cara gripped the detonator one last time. “For you, Dad,” she whispered.

Sisyphus

The sun was motionless in the white sky; a merciless whip of fire lashing him and the desolate mountainside into dessicated ruin. He had lost track of how long he'd been forcing his exhausted, burning body up the slope. Long enough to know that the path always looked the same in either direction. There was no summit, no base. No salvation.

*   *   *

I couldn't help laughing wryly at their latest prank. They'd harnessed Jonno to an inclined travelator under a huge lamp, and his glazed eyes told me there was more.

"You bastards have given him those hallucinogens again, haven't you?"

Prodigal Son

The alley stank of piss and hatred. Not that this mattered to Dietrich - it was familiar enough. His quarry, although dimly lit, was clearly a lone woman. She turned to face him as he reached her.

Not with the expected rictus of fear, though - nor the pleading that would just spur him on. An ebony cascade around her face; love and sorrow in her eyes. The most distant of memories stirred. Only then did he realise she had appeared in a dead end.

The alley stank of piss and hatred, and Dietrich wanted no part of this alien place.

An Einstein-Rosen Bridge Too Far

They were closing fast; both Carson and I were scared.

Directing the microdrones against our pursuers was commanding all my attention - so, whilst he was inexperienced, I'd given Carson the job of communicating our coordinates to the Extraction Picket. It would briefly open a wormhole on us as it flashed past the planet, completing our escape.

The gaping disc appeared fifty metres away. There was no chance we would get there before it closed.

"We're in a gravity well!" I screamed. "Did you account for the time dilation?"

The blank look on his face made me reach for his throat.

Vows

Her tight denim cutoffs rode high on her legs, their creamy tone a mouth-watering contrast against the black leather boots.

She hated the stares; despised the appreciative comments. She could have any one of these so-called men - even the married ones. Especially the married ones. She had given her word, though, and it was sacred. Her body was her husband’s, no matter what temptations beckoned. It was for him alone that she dressed this way.

She breezed through the front door, pausing hopefully. Dale barely looked up from the TV, his eyes blankly reflecting the flickering images that held him.

Deviance

". . . That's why we use prime-grade clones," explained Morton. "Expensive, but only they can provide the exacting similarity needed for the Parallel Organic Processors to work."

I was quite impressed with the machine: vast rows of pallid humans stretched into the distance, imprisoned within their interface units. This was the Governing Computer - responsible for ruling and directing the planet’s societies. Opposition to the breeding of its living components was largely non-existent by this point.

Morton frowned, and peered closely at one pod. The gauge labelled 'conscience' was flickering above zero.

“Can’t be having that,” he tutted. “Screw the whole bugger up."

Paradox Lost

Stevens, Harrington and I nervously activated the counter-CPE modules strapped to our bodies. They buzzed softly, and I could see a faint shimmering around my two companions. Humanity’s greatest experiment was about to begin.

We stepped through the Portal together. Although we would go back in time by a century, it would be a short first trip. Our devices would prevent the Chronology Protection Effect from harming us - at least, in theory.

A peculiar flicker as we returned had me briefly worried, but Stevens indicated that he was fine. We had both made it back. The experiment was a success!

Interlude

The Iveagh Gardens lay almost empty under the dreamy blue skies. The summer's late warmth had drawn the crowds a little further north to St. Stephen's Green; the incessant cries of its gulls were quite audible in the clear air.

He stood beside the shadowed mausoleum ("how appropriate," he thought), still trembling. Curiously, there didn't seem to be a way in - nowhere did the high stone walls yield. He pulled the jacket’s sleeves down further when he noticed, even in the shade, the blood spots on his cuffs.

This time it took only a short while for tranquility to descend.

Honest Wages

“I couldn’t understand your mother . . . because her mouth was full!”

Mandrake’s obscene taunts were having their desired effect. The tavern’s gaslight globes dimly illuminated a horde of furious faces. Pilkington chuckled, though the movement was lost in his huge frame. He knew, unlike the crowd, that his associate’s cane concealed a vicious rapier.

Harry was, of course, nowhere to be seen - which meant she was close, and ready.

It was time. Pilkington activated his Tesla pistol; the room's growing discord obscured its angry hum. A small smile.

This might not turn out to be such a bad job after all.

The Final Discovery

Pirates? Aliens? Pah! It’s the Deep Black itself that is wholly unforgiving.

Like the mariners of old and their seas, those of us who explore the vast emptiness between worlds have an abiding respect for it. It’ll kill you quickly, but not so fast that you won't have time to scream your last agonised breath into the void. A rare few touch it and live.

I look at the cracks in the viewport - courtesy of an errant cargo cannister. They're growing; there's nothing I can do to stop them. Should've bought that escape pod...

Soon I’ll know the vacuum completely.

Ultra Mortem

His grandfather died first, followed a few years later by his grandmother. Inseparable in life, it was, at first, a mere curiosity that in his dreams they were never together. Indeed, for some time he did not dream of his grandfather at all.

But then he would wake, agitated, from the visions of her alone, and move through the day with a restless anxiety. When he did finally see Grandad (strangely distant and obscured), he tried to tell him, frantically yelling and waving, that Gran needed him.

He only saw them once more after that night; they were holding hands.

Ouroboros

Timepoint 261.3:
The readings seem to indicate that I briefly crossed the Cauchy Horizon. That isn't even possible, though - must be an instrument glitch. Still, I think the last adjustment got screwed up somehow.

<<Activating>>

Timepoint 263.8:
Closer to home on that jump, but there's a lot of feedback entering from somewhere. Strange; I can't locate the source of it.

<<Activating>>

Timepoint 266.5:
Almost there. However, the portal's boundary is oscillating at its stabilisation limit. The margin is so tight that perhaps I should just terminate the experiment before something goes wrong.

<<Activating>>

Timepoint 261.3:
The readings seem to indicate...

Electric Dreams

High above us, the storm's fury crashed against the glass dome of the laboratory. The capacitor bank sung, dials leaping. Before us lay the ragged chunks of miscellaneous men, crudely stitched together with catgut and fishing hooks.

"Igor!" exclaimed the doctor (I’d always hated that nickname). "It is time!"

He threw the great switch; the imprisoned lightning surged into this parody of a corpse. It crackled immediately, blue flame wreathing its naked form. We both retched as the intestines ignited and burst.

The doctor gaped in bewilderment as the vile meat burned.

"Well," I said, "what did you bloody expect?"

Kin

I look one more time at the faded Polaroid. Me, Grant, Big Yin, Franko - and, of course, Budgie; all the old crew. The familiar, bittersweet memories gnaw at me as I think of past times.

Good times.

Blood brothers, raising hell. Girls, drugs, brawls, and the occasional cell - we shared them all. High on recklessness and life’s promise. Invincible. Admired by all the wrong people.

But they’re gone now, except Grant. That’s still hard to believe, some days.

I put the treasured photo back down and pick up the gun. Remembering.

There’s a good reason I’ve left Grant until last.

A Rude Awakening

The harsh braying eventually broke through the wall of dreamlessness that cocooned him. What had he been drinking last night? Connors didn’t remember going to the ship’s bar, but the god-awful pain in his head suggested that it must have been a helluva session.

He tried to silence the bastard alarm clock, but nothing was moving properly. Christ, they hadn’t tried rocket fuel cocktails again, had they? He must be face down in his pillow because he was struggling to breathe.

A surge of adrenaline brought him a last, lucid moment. It was the hull breach alarm! An asteroid had --

Romance Is Dead?

Unusually, they had the park to themselves.

It was a serenely beautiful morning, too. She was contented; amazed that it had worked out so well. They lay together where the clump of woodland, burgeoning and brightly splashed with the caress of Spring, sprawled into the neat beds of grass.

Was this, she wondered, the right moment to make her intentions clear? The thrill of anticipation was an almost unbearable ecstasy.

She looked blissfully at the corpse. Its head was shattered; the fresh, spilled contents tantalising her so that she shivered.

"Let me slip into something more comfortable," said the boreworm.

_________________________________________________________
[Thanks to Tim Whitten for the punch line.]

A Slap On The Wrist

The bang! of the judge's gavel woke me rather rudely from my doze.

Through bleary eyes, I could see the disapproving glares of the oh-so-worthy denizens assembled before me. I regarded them in much the same way as I did the numberless dust pixels floating in the drab chamber.

"Aesh Petersen, for the crime of Artificing..." - a muttering of disgust went through the public gallery, as it always did - "...I sentence you to fifty years of death."

Bad.

Pretty damned bad, in fact.

But it could be worse, I thought. I might have been sentenced to fifty years of life.

Duty

Corporal Kurihara was oblivious to the sweat coursing down his neck as he stared through the dark mass of foliage with implacable patience. His now-tattered fatigues hung like the limp, dank fronds around him. No one walking the barely present path would have noticed his motionless rifle.

It had been some considerable time since he'd last sighted the enemy. Nor, strangely, had there been any contact from HQ - but they would come to relieve him in due course.

As dusk shrouded the jungle, he mentally checked-off the date: August 30, 1946. It was a long war - that much was certain.

Uncertain Shores

An Observation Torpedo flashed past his ship as it looped crazily - and detonated. Its visblast tore into his locality. The fragile wave functions that spun like filigree whorls around him instantly collapsed, the set of possible realities reducing alarmingly.

Graeth's face remained impassive as his fingers danced through the control volumes; the Schrodinger Drive whined then shrieked like a frustrated toddler, redlining at seven megacats. A boundary condition edged closer - unseen - blazing cold and sharp.

Too close. It intersected the ship; Graeth's decoherence pattern smeared across the plane in complex glory.

It was no comfort that another, unreachable self survived.

Saurian Dissolution

Sir Gadsley stroked his not inconsiderable moustache, and regarded the slumbering dragon.

Magnificent creature, really. A monstrous furnace of destruction, wrapped in adamant scales and fuelled by inexhaustible greed.

Carefully, Gadsley unwrapped the giant wand that the wizard had given him to slay the dread wyrm. He still felt dubious about this “ancient artifact”; those kind of people were not entirely reliable. One knew that from experience. Still, he may as well try the blasted thing - if he wanted the King’s reward.

He peered again at the mysterious runes etched into its hard surface:

M1 Bazooka - This End Towards Enemy

Chef

"You need to add some marjoram."

"Not for this. What it needs is cardamom."

Shuka was a soft-spoken girl; no one had ever heard her raise her voice, and she hated it when others seemed angry with her. But she knew her culinary arts. They were the only thing that gave her confidence.

Mrabko frowned, then shrugged and reached for the clay pot.

The figure stirred and moaned, straining uselessly against the wire that bound him to the slow-turning spit. Shuka smashed him in the temple again with her rock.

Consciousness meant fear - and that would only spoil the meat.