Story #165 - Lorandim Ride

Lorandim Ride

The cascading thunder of hooves told him that the riders were approaching.

Common sense dictated that he flatten himself on the ground in an effort to avoid their whirling blades, despite the danger presented by the churning metal that clad their horses feet.

Dungan Drahl had little left in the way of anything common. He stood his ground.

As the first group came he raised his arms and exposed his neck to the silvered lines that were lord-forged swords, giving them ample access to the most delicate parts of his being. A single cut with one of the blades could easily shear off a limb or pierce a heart, and only a madman would meet a Lorandim Rider’s charge with their head held high, let alone meet a dozen.

Blades flashed, but flew just wide, stopped a hairsbreadth short of their intended target. Dungan kept himself balanced, stable, marveling at the still-new ability to see every blade, predict every strike before it came. Only subtle movements were needed to avoid the slow and clumsy swings of the men on horseback, movements he could see were driving them mad with rage.

As each line passed and none could score a single hit, none could score a killing blow, he saw their grace turned to stump-legged boorishness, saw their fluidity freeze and shatter on the deep cold of their anger.

Dungan smiled.

Two leapt off their horses above him, and met the ground with broken necks. It had been almost too easy; their pulsing veins had been his for the taking, his to twist as he needed. Dungan deplored killing, but the agreement he had made specified a certain amount would be required, certain sacrifices would have to be made.

The Lorandim were a noble people, a group of gentle herders who had been pressed into service by an uncaring god. For fifty generations, they had trained and bred horses for battle, had honed their skills on horseback until they were unmatched in the Land. Now, they were mercenaries for hire, their dedication to the god long-lost, and their only goal to protect their homeland.

No women rode with the Lorandim, and the men who fell in battle were never mourned. Only victory was celebrated; only success was rewarded. The men in the dirt by his hand would never be acknowledged.

He spun on his heel and found a wall of riders behind him. A quick glance over his shoulder showed that he was surrounded, more Lorandim moving in behind those in front to create a circle three deep on all sides.

A movement at the back of the pack caught his eye, and he watched as the black banner of the Commander moved to the circle’s edge. The death of two of his men demanded his personal attention, and any reluctance on his part to fight the killer would mean revolt by his own men.

The life of a Lorandim was hard – and often short.

“You fight well, Outsider,” the Commander grated at him, “we are pleased to meet such a challenge in the Long Wastes.”

Dungan nodded. “I am pleased to give one. Now, come down off your horse and let us attend to this matter like men.”

The Commander bristled, and Dungan could see half-smiles ghost across the faces of the men behind the leader and his black flag bearer.

“Your hesitation does not become a true Lorandim!” Dungan called out loudly. “Are you a coward that you will not fight?” It was a long chance, but enough insults might stay the Commander’s hand long enough for the others to seize an opportunity, to take advantage of a chance for quick promotion.

He could see the desire in the faces of the other riders, but none moved before the Commander swung down from his saddle. Once the brown-clad man’s feet touched the ground, Dungan could see why. On horseback he had seemed larger than the others around him, but Dungan had assumed that was thanks to the quality of the mount he rode. Now on equal footing, it was apparent that the Commander topped the men around him by a full foot, and outstripped Dungan by half that again. Angled cheeks and long hair tied back in a long tail gave him a fierce appearance, one not unlike the roan he had stepped down from. Two blades appeared in his hands, longer than others that Dungan had seen and with jagged edges at their tips.

Dungan spared no time for consideration, and instead charged hard forward, taking the Commander in the chest and knocking him to the ground. Locking his legs around the man’s waist, Dungan reached for the Commander’s neck, but the bigger man bucked him off hard, and he found himself flying through the air to land hard on his back. He was on his feet in a moment, and he met the Commander in the middle of their circle, where they danced around each other warily.

He had not wanted it to come to this. His plea had been answered by the Highest, and while he knew a price had to be paid, he had hoped it would one he could live with, one that would let him return to his people when his goal had been accomplished.

Each body that fell to his skill, each man that died by his hand put him farther from that dream, moved him away from any chance at redemption.

His introspection almost cost him his head as the Commander surged forward, swords swinging high. Only the gifts he’d received from the Highest saved him an untimely end, and the roars from around him said the onlookers would have preferred such a death.

He had hoped this would not be necessary. Why did his loss necessitate more? Why did violence only further itself? Why was this his burden?

No answers came.

Resignation washed over him, chased by a burning need for redemption, for satisfaction. Closing his eyes, he let the power of the Highest wash over him, let the agreement he had made come to fruition.

His right hand moved of its own accord, and he felt a sharp jolt, followed by warm lifeblood coursing over his arm. The cheers of the Lorandim around him told the tale; the Commander was dead.

Dungan felt a part of himself die as well.


- D

Story #164 - Sign-off Supernova

Sign-off Supernova

Suppose just for a moment that a star collapsed, sending out a shockwave of force.

This in itself is hardly an impossibility; such events occur at regular intervals across the not-so-empty field of space, each one a thundering detonation that tears apart a star from within, leaving either a dead, gravity-heavy husk, or a hole bent on destroying all matter that comes its way.

But suppose that this star was not merely one of a thousand, or a million, destined to die. Suppose such a star were...encouraged to meet its final end.

Some would ask about those who caused it. What were their motives? Was such an act planned or accidental?

Others might ask about the star's location – were inhabited planets nearby? Were peoples, civilizations and cultures wiped out?

To answer those is simple: greed, accidental, two, four peoples, three civilizations and eight broad cultures.

But these are not the questions or answers that matter. On their surface, they seem relevant, but in the larger scope of the universe, are incidental. It is the question of how such a collapse happened that will reveal the real truth, how such titanic force was unleashed that will provide a broader answer.

For that, we must go to Balgan, perhaps the loneliest world on the Outer Arm of the galaxy, one settled by traders and left desiccated and hollow after had it had been stripped of all its natural resources. Three star-jumps to the nearest port mean that Alliance ships rarely bothered with it, and the weekly supply run was often late – by as much as a week.

Vens Carbal was one of the Last One Hundred, a group of settlers that refused to leave Balgan even after all sources of its income had dried up.

He had spent two and a half weeks waiting for a single part to fix his water purifier, and knew that if the part didn't come soon, he was going to have to go begging next door for a drink, something he had no desire to do – he knew his neighbor, but didn't like the man.

What Vens didn't know was that a star would soon die by his hand.

***

The delivery goon looked different than usual, but not so out of place that Vens really noticed. All of the employees of the Alliance Arrival fleet bore similar features, since over ninety percent of them hailed directly from the central planets in system 1. Tall and broad shouldered, those who were drafted into serving in the Arrival fleet were the bottom of the barrel – meaning they were too stupid to make it as grunts that died on foreign planets for dubious causes.

As a result, it took Vens three times as long as it should have to get his purifier off of the truck and explain to the goon what address he had landed at. If Vens had been just a little less honest, he could easily have picked up a number of interesting items meant for others on the surface, many of which he could use. Bad blood with his neighbors wasn't worth it, however, and he knew that they had to stick together if they had any hope of surviving the next time the Alliance went to war, pulling delivery ships off of their routes and co-opting them into the role of troop transports.

Once the paperwork was found and completed, the goon proved at least marginally useful at getting the purifier off of the truck and into his front yard. As soon as the large Steelplas box touched the ground, the goon let it go, and it was all Vens could do to keep it upright and avoid a crushed torso.

“Bye,” the goon said without ceremony, hopping into the pilot's seat and jamming the engine throttle. Vens had to jump back as the delivery craft roared to life, sending out a wave of flame that cascaded over and around the box. Thankfully, Steelplas was meant for just such idiocy, and once the heat had dissipated from its surface, Vens dragged the box inside.

Five minutes later, he was cursing loudly.

He should have checked inside – he knew better – but the goon had been in such a hurry, and the box had the right stamp on the outside corner. The Pliven Corporation was very exacting about its packaging, and as soon as Vens had seen the water purifier notation near the edge of the box, he'd turned his brain off. Perhaps the problems of system 1 were catching.

None of the parts in the box were familiar to him, though there was a set of diagrammed instructions that looked easy enough to follow. Despite his curiosity, however, he left all of the pieces inside their Steelplas casing – it wasn't a purifier, and no matter how interesting it turned out to be, he didn't need it.

A week passed and he came back to the box. He'd been forced to borrow water every day for the past three, and though his neighbors were accommodating, he could tell their supplies were low as well. He'd spoken to an Arrival Fleet rep about the package, but was told it would be at least a week and half more before anyone could come out to take it back and provide him with what he had ordered.

Grabbing the instructions, he began pulling parts out of the tall box, operating on the assumption that most Pliven technology used the same basic set of principles, and that there was a good chance he could make some of the new device suit his purposes.

After an hour, he knew he had nothing he could use to purify water. In fact, he had nothing he had ever seen before. Half as tall as him, the shining metal device had two screens and one button – a giant, red circle with a large symbol painted on it, one he didn't recognize.

Jamming it a few times, he was disappointed to find that nothing happened, then kicked the device into a corner and stomped inside to watch the evening Visicast. He was in a foul mood; he hated having to beg or borrow.

The smooth face of the visicaster told him that something was wrong, and when he heard what it was he was stunned. The entire fleet was being dispatched to a trio of stars that had suddenly exploded, and that meant his purifier was going to be even further delayed.

A knock at his door sounded and he stood; who on Balgan would be calling at such an hour?

***

The body of Vens Carbal was never found. His murderer took only one item from the dead man's home. - a single piece of wire.

- D

Story #163 - Wordsmith

Wordsmith

Pete had trouble calculating the cost to his parents for the structure they'd created. Over the years, it had become more and more elaborate as his “disease” progressed, to a point where he was sequestered almost alone in the home, despite the fact that his mother and father lived less than five feet beyond his walls.

The attic became his; a far larger bedroom than any sixteen year old would possibility need, filled to the brim with the latest gadgets, toys, and all the food he could want. He had to do nothing more than pick up the small phone on the wall, and either his mother or the security man outside would answer, and get him whatever he wanted.

Unless, of course, his request involved them opening the door or bringing a friend by to play. In those cases, he was simply hung up on.

Pete was honest enough about his situation to understand that most of those he had called friends before his parents knew he was sick had moved away or believed that he was dead. While his mother and father hadn't actively spread the rumor that he'd passed away, they had a way of looking sad and forlorn when anyone asked that stemmed the tide of questions, and left the asker almost certain that the “nice young man” they'd known was gone.

His parents had been kind enough to include cameras in his attic prison so that he could see what was going on in the main area of the house, and warn them or the guard if someone was trying to break in or if he saw something dangerous happening. Of course, the cameras also allowed his parents to see what was going on the in his attic along with all other parts of the house, which meant he couldn't claim an emergency as a way out of his cage when none existed.

It had been a false cry of fire that got him out the first time, and though he'd been very careful when he left, his parents had been furious that he'd tricked them. They didn't yell, of course, just ushered him back up the attic stairs, then closed and bolted the door behind him. It was out of concern for his sickness, they told him.

His parents were not bad people, just blind to his true nature and unsure of what to make of him. He was unsure himself, but knew that he didn't deserve to be locked away like a common criminal. It was the doctors that had convinced them, that had told them he would be better off with no way to “express”, as they called it, and that everyone would be the safer for it.

It wasn't that what he had was contagious; far from it. Rather it, was that no one had ever seen what he had, no one could put a finger on why he was different. Grade-school had made it obvious enough that he was different than the other children. Bright enough, he had taken to reading like a fish to water, but writing seemed to elude him no matter how hard the teacher pushed. Picking up a pencil made him cry, and the thought of a pen in his hands made him ill. Learning specialists were consulted and scratched their heads, telling his parents that he might be developmentally delayed, but that they didn't really know for sure.

Finally, at the age of eight and in front of a full classroom of children and one encouraging teacher, he had written the word “tiger” on the board. A sound at the back of the class had distracted him from writing the name of another animal, and turning put him face to face with a charging, snarling orange-and-white form. Stumbling backward into the chalkboard had erased the offending word, and the tiger disappeared. The looks on the faces of the other children and the teacher told him that what he had seen had been no dream, but he and the rest of the class were quickly told that nothing had happened, and he found himself in the principal's office. He wasn't blamed, exactly – since there was nothing to blame him for, as the tiger had been a “complete fallacy”, according to the large and bearded leader of the school – but he was told to stop writing immediately.

He didn't, of course.

He was careful never to write anything too dangerous or too outlandish down, but monkeys did show up in his home, and tables of pies and cakes would appear often at school. Within six months, his parents had been told to keep him at home and take his pens and pencils away.

A sharp knife and a painted wall worked well enough for a writing surface, and he kept on summoning whatever he thought of, until his father finally locked him away. Even that wasn't working until his parents hired a design firm and got creative.

He'd gone to sleep one night after a particularly large dinner, one he was now sure had been drugged. When he awoke, his room in the attic had been converted into something from an asylum. Smooth, indestructible plastic coated all of the walls, plastic that could not be scratched to make a mark, and would not hold spit or blood long enough for him to fashion a word before they dripped away. The hardwood flooring had been replaced with a soft grating, not unpleasant to stand on, but such that even a regular bodily function could not help him draw words on the ground.

Pete sighed as he finished his dinner, shoving half of the peas left on his plate into his mouth and placing them on the outside edge of his bottom teeth. In a few minutes, he'd use the bathroom and they vegetables could join the stockpile he was making there. Writing implements weren't necessary, he'd discovered, just the physical act of making a word, and one constructed would do as well as one scribed.

He was getting out.

- D

Story #162 - Community Minded

Community Minded

“It is the for the good of the Community.”

Jassen Fairbanks sighed, then straightened in his seat. It wouldn't do to have others around the table perceive any sign of weakness from him; the situation was already out of hand, and he had to do all he could not to make it worse.

“Please,” he said distantly, “explain to this council why stoning Ms. Pless would be of benefit?”

Lorm Westlan turned fiery eyes on him, and the younger man's mouth was open in a half-snarl. His election to the council was one that Jassen had strenuously opposed, but Lorm's unceasing dedication to those members of the Community he felt were worthy, along with a complete lack of fear that bordered on madness had led to his rapid rise in the group of five thousand and his eventual position as a council member.

Fairbanks wasn't sure where it had all gone wrong. The idea was sound, even now, when he examined it, and at first the development of the Community went exactly according to plan. With cities and towns around the globe flailing and failing after a nuclear winter brought on by vain politicians, it was clear a new solution was needed. While science had been able to barely avoid the disaster that no sunlight could have caused with a timely and effective intervention, Jassen knew the truth: it was science that had allowed such weapons of destruction to be built, and a return to a simpler, more honest time was necessary for the human race to survive.

Finding five thousand willing souls hadn't been difficult, and he had kept his message as religiously neutral as possible. He didn't believe that god was the answer, any more than satan was the cause. Humanity had done this to themsleves, and he would be damned if he would see people he loved suffer again.

Hopefully, he wouldn't be damned at all, but old ways of thinking were hard to break.

The Community had taken root quickly, and using the land he had purchased outside of what had once been a small city, those he had brought with him found ample space for cultivation, and enough left-over preserved food that they were able to eke out the first few winters until their farming skills improved enough to produce reliable crops.

Everything had been going so well.

“You know as well as I, Fairbanks.” Lorm's tone was disdainful. He had paid lip service to Jassen when he was running for his council spot, but once he had achieved his goal, his promises to “work with the Community's creator for the good of all” had all but disappeared. Lorm was after one thing – his own good – and everything else was a distant second. “She was caught with another man, in full defiance of our laws.”

Lorm was technically correct, thanks to a small error that Jassen had made when he created the Community's legal system. Believing that marriage was an institution owned by the state and no longer in the hands of the people, he had eliminated it for those that followed him. Couples were free to stay together or drift apart as they so chose, without the burden of a ceremony or the need for complex legal action.

What he had paid less attention to were punishments for “lewd behavior in the public eye”, something that he broadly defined and left open to some interpretation. His plan was to have them cover such things as exposing oneself in public or excessive and offensive demonstrations should a power group ever rise to oppose him. He had never considered that someone like Lorm would use the law to twist a passionate but mostly innocent kiss between a woman and her lover into the grounds for a moral stoning.

Stoning had been included as the method of choice for executions largely as social commentary – Jassen had been sure that his Community would never need to use such methods, but having a terribly strict consequence would show outsiders the requirements for living among those in his paradise.

Now, he was afraid he might have to carry out his specified punishment, though it had never been meant for use.

“In principle, perhaps, but in spirit, hardly. You know as well as I do that Ms. Pless is a good woman, and your case for 'another man' is merely an attempt to rattle old moral cages. That she was in public performing what you define as a 'lewd act' is the only grounds for such punishment.”

“So you admit it!” Lorm's voice was triumphant. The man had all the signs of classic zealotry: unwashed hair, terrible body odor and fashion choices that bordered on the ludicrous.

“Hardly,” Jassen said calmly, “I merely frame your case as you present it. I disagree with you on all points. This is not how our Community should run, brothers,” he met the eyes of each man at the table I turn, “and you know this. Do not listen to him.”

“You see,” Lorm said quickly, “it is just as I told you.” He stood, moving to each councilman and placing a hand on their shoulders. Some flinched as he touched them, but the majority smiled as he came near. “Even those closest to us have been corrupted by the filth of the lost world.”

Lorm came to a halt at the head of the long table, and spread his arms wide. “I have nothing but respect for our founder, his time has come, much as that of Ms. Pless. His idea was pure, but his creation could never be, so corrupted was he by the world outside. Only eight of my years were spent in the world as it was, struggling to find my way. I was truly born here, as a child of the Community.”

Jassen felt a pressure in his chest; he did not like where this was going.

“The time for following the ways of Jassen Fairbanks has passed. We must move forward, and he must step back. I ask him to do this here, in public, so you may see his response, see how deeply the lost world has cut to his bone.”

He sighed, and rose from the table. He had heard rumors of such a coup in the works, but obviously paid them too little mind. Lorm had done the legwork; a refusal to step down now and he would be committed to a stoning he couldn't condone. Jassen was up against a wall, but he wouldn't sacrifice another human being for his own pride.

“They're all yours, Lorm,” he said as he moved past the smaller man, “good luck to you.”

A familiar determination settled over him as he swept through the town hall doors. He had raised the Community from the ground twenty years ago.

He was sure he could destroy it.

- D

Story #161 - Camp Out

Camp Out

Sharon Bastiuk hated camping.

It wasn't just the bugs and the rain; it was the smell on her clothes and the constant fear that overwhelmed her in the dark. Her husband, Dave, had finally given in and bought them a hard-sided trailer instead of demanding they sleep on the group like “real campers”, but it had taken a great deal of pleading on Sharon's part for that to happen.

Dave wasn't a bad guy, just set in his ways. When the pair had first started dating, she had lied and said that she loved camping so they could spend more time together, and Dave had told her that he wanted to come with her on all of the training runs she did for her biannual half marathons. Neither of them really meant it, but love being what it was meant that they both ended up doing things they would have preferred not to.

Now, struggling out of the small bed after another night of poor sleep, Sharon cursed herself for missing the last two marathons. If nothing else, it would have forced Dave to come run with her, or given her an excuse not to come camping.

A quick glance in the mirror showed her that her hair was matted and her face was worn and lined. She was pretty, but three nights in the trailer had taken their toll. With no showers and no access to running water in the government-run campground, there was nothing she could do but take a daily dip in the lake to wash herself, and that left her feeling greasy.

She knew they only had two days left before Dave's parents had to take their own trailer back into town, and that Dave might stay one more day if he was feeling stubborn, but right now that seemed like an eternity. Pausing by the small sink the middle of the trailer, she let herself break for a moment, and indulged in the glorious feeling of being sorry for herself.

Sounds outside caught her attention and she pulled herself together, then slipped on her sandals and opened the door to face the day. Both of Dave's parents were up, Cheryl making coffee on a small stove they had attached to their large trailer and Rob stoking the small fire he'd already started burning. Both Rob and Dave were obsessed with fire when it came to camping, and made sure that one was burning anytime anyone was around to take care of it. They found it comforting, but Sharon found that the smoke from it followed her no matter where she went. Sitting on the opposite side from the stinging white mist seemed to bring it to her, and while she did her best to laugh it off, her patience was running thin.

“Good morning, Sharon,” Rob said, and she mumbled something in return.

“Morning!” Cheryl said brightly, and Sharon made sure to respond in kind. Robert didn't care what she said to him - despite being her father-in-law he was a sucker for a pretty face – but Cheryl demanded a certain amount of respect. Not so much that Sharon would call her unreasonable, thankfully, though she and the older woman had endured their share of stand-offs.

The latest one was about children. Specifically, why she and Dave didn't have any. Despite her repeated requests that Cheryl should speak Dave about it, not her, the older woman insisted on giving her advice about conception and reproductive health, even going so far as describing various positions that were said to be aids to conception.

Sharon had halted the conversation at that moment, and pointedly told Cheryl that she was not interested in listening to any more. Her mother-in-law had been unhappy, but stopped talking. From what Dave told her, Cheryl had now started in on him, which was unfortunate but a better option than having to deal with the woman herself.

Movement from the forest surrounding the campsite caught her eye, but she did her best to ignore it. Since their very first camping trip, she'd been having a waking dream almost every morning, one that involved a thin man in a gray suit and sunglasses. He'd stand at the edge of the trees and stare at her, hands dug deeply into his pockets, lips pursed and body rigid. He made no attempt to hide, but was such a contrast with the surroundings that Cheryl knew he could not possibly be real.

Her dreams in the great outdoors were so scattered that assumed he was generated from there, and by the time breakfast was over, he'd be gone.

A large puff of smoke came from the wet-wood campfire Rob was making, one that was carried on the wind directly toward the man in the suit. Cheryl watched as it wafted over him, and distinctly saw his lips twist. His hand came up to cover his mouth, and he coughed.

Cheryl charged at him.

The man saw her coming and started to move, but it was far too late. She crashed into him at next to a large oak tree, slamming his thin form into its trunk. Years of cardiovascular and weight training had made her strong and flexible, and the man she held seemed as though he would break if she pressed to hard. He struggled, but to no effect.

“Who the hell are you?” It felt strange to be talking to a dream, but his reaction to the smoke told the tale; this was something more.

“I...” he hesitated, and she slammed him against the tree several more times for good measure. Behind her, she could hear Rob and Cheryl approaching, likely wondering why she had gone off the deep end.

“Dave!” Rob called. “Get out here! There's something wrong with Sharon!”

The man she held pulled a metal device from his pocket and jammed home a large red button. A small black hole appeared above his head, one that began to move slowly downward to cover his body. Sharon hesitated for only a moment and then crushed the man to her chest, slipping into the hole with him.

Sharon hated camping.

- D

Story #160 - Simon Says

Simon Says

Bob Blaker felt a tingle of electricity at his feet as he stepped out of bed, and spoke quickly.

“Permission to rise!” It should have been a question, but he would take a sting from a statement over the full power of the shock implant in his back that came from not saying anything at all. The pain would be targeted at the offending part of his body, and he had extremely sensitive toes.

“Granted,” said a cheerful voice, “and good morning Bob.”

“Good morning, Simon,” Bob said in return, and then headed for the bathroom.

“Permission to enter?” He spoke quickly as he came to the door.

“Of course, Bob, and thank you for asking.”

Bob grunted in response. It wasn't as though he had much choice, but displaying open anger was a sure way to get shock, likely to a part of him that was more vulnerable. Simon was a reasonable man, but as he had told Bob so many times, he was just “following orders”.

Typically, Bob did his best to avoid thinking about the Event and the permissions a frightened populace had slowly given a government that promised security and stability. From what he had read, many great dictatorships had started the same way, and now men and women across the country could get a taste of just what it felt like to have a watcher every moment of every day. Permission was needed for the smallest tasks, not because they were dangerous, but because the kept the populace in line. At first, the ruling party had claimed that they were for the good of all and followed their statement with the magic phrase “and would increase security”, and so the increasingly intrusive nature of the measures were ignored. Once it became clear that manipulation was the aim and not assistance, every adult in the country had been fitted with a shock sensor, and the government stopped bothering to answer questions.

So far as Bob knew, their leaders were holed up somewhere in the west, constantly creating new policy that further restricted and dictated the actions of the public. He'd been an engineer before the collapse – now, he did manual labor at a small factory in the city.

“Simon, what day is it?” Bob knew full well, but liked to have his questions on record.

“Sunday, Bob. Enjoy yourself.”

Bob knew that the day wouldn't last much longer as one where he wasn't forced to work. While much of the original interest in control came from right-wing religious groups, they had slowly been replaced by atheist and agnostic leaders, ones who had no interest in keeping the sanctity of the last day of the week. Soon, a measure would be passed forcing all citizens of a working age to report to their jobs on Sunday as well as all other days. There would be standard protests, but those would end with shock-injuries, full hospitals and a number of deaths at the hands of riot police.

Bob had pulled the toothpaste from the drawer before he realized what he was doing, and an arcing electric slash down the arm caused him to drop it onto the floor. Even after two years, it was difficult to remember the level of independence he was required to give up.

“Bob,” Simon's voice said sternly in his head, “you know better than that.”

“Of course.” Bob clenched his right fist. “Of course I do. I'm sorry. Permission to brush my teeth, wash my face, and use the toilet?”

“Yes.” Simon wasn't punitive, but he had a job to do. Bob had tried to get to know him over the years, but with no luck. The “man” in his head might be a computer construct or robot, since it appeared he never slept, and never needed to take a break.

It had taken Bob some time to get used to the idea that another being, however removed, could see him performing his most intimate bodily functions, and the first two months that Simon had been with him, he had waited until the absolute last moment before using any washroom facility. Even now, he found the process degrading.

“It appears that you need more fiber in your diet, Bob,” Simon said clinically, and Bob ground his teeth together. There was no point in an answer.

Once finished, he asked permission to shave, and it was granted. Taking his electric razor from the cabinet, he flicked it on and enjoyed the sudden mental silence that came with it. It was impossible to hear Simon over the buzz and hum of the small device, and for a moment he felt free.

Bringing the razor down to the sink to tap out the hair collected, he noticed that the faucet had not been fully turned off from his earlier face-washing. In his mind, he could hear a low protest from Simon, one that increased in intensity the closer the razor came to the running stream. He could feel a tingling begin in his biceps, one that ran quickly down his arms to his hands.

Bob hesitated for a moment, and then jammed the razor under the running stream. Electricity arced up and into his fingers, met by shocks streaming down his arms. The two forces fought, finally settling at his elbows, and Bob felt his legs give way.

He woke on the bathroom floor, the razor lying beside him in pieces. Moving slowly, he checked to make sure all of his limbs still worked and then levered himself off of the ground.

“Simon,” he said slowly, “permission to leave the bathroom?” He paused at the door, but there was no answer, so he tried again.

Nothing.

Stepping forward, he braced himself for the coming shock. Perhaps Simon was angry, and was going to let Bob make mistakes that would be harshly dealt with.

Still nothing.

“Simon?” His head answered back with only his own thoughts.

He was at his bedside in a flash, fighting weakness from being shocked by the razor to pull on pants and a shirt. They would be coming for him.

He had to find Miranda.

- D

Story #159 - Shade of Red

Shade of Red

These humans are terribly unobservant.

For years, we could not put a name to their forms, mostly because we had no interest in doing so. Their loud boot-falls and unwieldy bodies made us think they were nothing more than animals that migrated across our territory, searching for a new source of food.

It wasn't until one of our own followed them for a time that he discovered what we had all been missing: they were not from our world.

Working out the basics of their language took less than a week, and not a few of us had trouble believing that they could possibly communicate through such a simplistic set of sounds and gestures. The scientist responsible for their discovery was ridiculed for many turns, until he could finally show a pattern to their behavior and a smattering of intelligence to their actions.

Forays onto the surface became a regular event as more information about these humans was obtained, and we were stunned to discover the amount of garbage they had left on our world. Crude electronic devices, coated in dust and grit, were buried at some of our holiest sites, sites that had been the homes and temples of our ancestors. Data was collected from these relics, and we were able to get a clearer picture of just what these humans were trying to do.

Debate raged about capturing one for study, but it was impossible to know when their next capsule would touch down. Only four sightings had occurred in thirty turns, though we were confident that another was coming soon. With our own instrumentation tuned to the constant stream on information that came from the blue planet near us, we were able to learn not only about their intentions on our world, but how badly they had ruined their own.

Historians were consulted, who told us that we were once much as they were, and that it was our own hubris that set the surface aflame and drove us underground. Our planet had once been a vibrant yellow, coursing with plant life and fueled by underground springs. War between two rival families burned what we had built to ash and tarnished the surface, staining it forever red. Now, we “martians”, as the humans called us, were doomed to eke out an existence below ground, siphoning water from near the planet's core.

We were living on a doomed world.

It was this, more than anything, that drove our interest in the humans. Their planet could yet be saved, could be turned from its path, but it was too late for ours. Estimates showed oue water supply would last only another one hundred and fifty turns – a single lifetime for most of us. Our children and their children would grow up with rationed water measures in place, and would bear witness to the slow death that hubris and violence had wrought.

An impassioned plea to the Elders gave us permission to capture the next of their kind we saw, and fortunately we did not have to wait long. Interest in our world was ramping up on the blue planet as their own wars loomed, and those among them considered the most intelligent pushed for another manned mission to the “red planet”.

Seven turns later, three of their kind touched down, an improved generation of scanning tools at the ready, but ones that had no hope of detecting our helium-based structures. Their dedication to the methods of science weer admirable, but their view was limited. We were on top of them before they had any idea we had arrived.

We took all of them for good measure, but were careful to wear the green suits that our exo-scientists had developed. All indications were that our touch would be toxic to them and vice-versa, and we could not afford to lose any more of our kind. A test to see their reaction to our natural flesh would have been intriguing, but not all curiosities could be satisfied.

Unfortunately, all attempts at communication have been ineffective. Using what appears to pass for their own brand of science, all three of those that we have captured – two males and a female, if we are correct about their body makeups – are attempting to study us even as we do our best to explain our actions to them. While their speech is easy to understand, our much smaller mouths have difficulty replicating it, and we have not been able to establish a firm framework of communication.

Our next option has not been approved by the Elders, but I have volunteered to undergo the procedure nonetheless. The amount of time it takes for a decision to be made could mean the destruction of the aliens' landing craft, giving us no way to study their homeworld.

A bio-sac has been fashioned, one that I will be fitted into, and that will be mounted inside the large thoracic cavity of the tallest male. His size should give me ample room to deploy, and their crude bodily functions are easily manipulated.

There is an air of disappointment among my colleagues; our goal was knowledge, not control, but we are left with little choice. The memories of those with my host will be wiped, but a curiosity will be instilled, even greater than before, and evidence will be planted near their craft that will be speak to a potential civilization nearby. I will infiltrate their ranks on earth, and the two left free will push for another mission to return, for more of their kind to arrive.

We are not a cruel race. We have learned from our mistakes and wish only for peace, but these humans are simply below us. In several thousand years, their potential might increase to match our own, but our planet is dying, our people suffering. They must accept that their betters are coming, even if they do not wish to.

We weep, but know that the Martian invasion has begun.

- D