The Short Story Thread: Post Yours Here

[Drakkith]

I see a lot of posts here in the writing and world-building forum that ask for help in creating a story, but I rarely see any actual stories! Perhaps you've never shown your writing to anyone else or maybe you've never gotten to the part of writing where you actually do some writing (it's quite common).

Whatever the case, that's what this thread is for. Type up a short story that can fit within a single post and post it! It doesn't have to be long. A few sentences is fine. Any amount of writing is a good amount!

However, please don't spam the thread with lots of short posts in a short amount of time. If you're writing that much that quickly, you might as well combine it all into a single post before posting.

And please, no critiques or comments. This is just for posting stories, not for feedback.

 

[Drakkith]

Here's a little story to start the thread off:
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Rust and steel. You can't find one without the other. Not here. Not at this place of slow death, where the interned were doomed to succumb to the unstoppable corrosion of time and the elements. Some called it a junkyard. Others a scrapyard. Her father called it a wrecking yard. Laura called it a tomb.

"This one is good. This one excellent."

Laura turned to the man walking beside her. Tall and lanky, with limbs that seemed far too long for his body, the man wasn't really a man. A man couldn't be called four eyes unless he was wearing glasses. A man didn't have hair that looked more like thick spines. A man's legs didn't bend the wrong way when he walked.

The man's mouth opened, the lower jaw parting vertically even as it moved down, and out came a sound that wouldn't be out of place coming from a dying raccoon. Laura's translator clicked and an emotionless voice came through, "I tell your father you like this one. It is good."

He was pointing at something just up ahead. They rounded a heap of rusting... something, and Laura's eyes raised in surprise. It couldn't be. Not here. Not among the skeletons of thousands of steel beasts lying in rot in this abysmal place.

It was an aircraft. A DF-17. Officially named after a bird she couldn’t remember the name of, everyone called it a Dragonfly. It was certainly shaped like one. It had four narrow, pivoting wings, one pair behind and slightly above the other, with a dirty anti-grav engine mounted in the base of each. The cockpit was a single-seater that you had to enter from the inside of the aircraft, and smudges covered the bulbous canopy protecting it from the elements. The fuselage, just large enough to hold a handful of passengers, blended seamlessly into a long thin tail with two stabilizers arranged in a v-shape at the end.

They approached the vehicle and Laura reached out and touched it. The metal was cold and dirty under her fingertips. She circled the vehicle, her fingers making trails in the dirt on the skin of the aircraft. Dirt was good. Dirt was better than rust. Dirt wasn’t a cancer that ate away at you like what took her mother.

Laura took off her backpack and set it on the ground in front of her. She unzipped a pouch and reached in, pulling back a moment later with a silvery orb the size of her hand. Her thumb clicked a button on the side and the orb whirred to life, quickly springing from her hand to hover in front of her. A violet glow emanated from a small depression in the orb, like a single eye that stared at her.

“Hello, Binary,” she said.

“Hello!” it said in a quick, high-pitched, electronic voice. “How can Binary be of assistance?”

Laura pointed to the aircraft. “Get a full scan. And see if you can boot up the flight computer. Once you’re done, forward everything to me.”

“Binary is happy to comply!”

Binary surged forward and swooped around her head once before making a beeline towards the craft. While the little drone worked, she grabbed a small ladder that had been laid up against the side of the aircraft and climbed up and onto a wing to look at the engines. They appeared to be in good condition, despite the dirt and grime covering them. It had taken her a few minutes to pop the latches and pry open the panels covering each one and by the time she was almost done with the fourth engine Binary came whirring up to her.

“Binary has completed its task and forwarded all relevant data to your implants! Is there anything else Binary can help you with?”

Laura pulled up an overlay on top of her vision and quickly went through the data. She smiled. Yes. Yes this was excellent. Better than excellent. Turning back to the drone, she said, “Thank you, Binary but I think that’s all. Go back to sleep.”

“Binary is happy to have assisted you! Returning to designated power-down location and entering sleep mode!”

With that, Binary dropped down and out of sight. Laura closed the latches on the last panel and walked back to the ladder.

The “man” met her when she climbed back down, asking, “You like?”

Unable to take her eyes off the aircraft, she said, “Yeah. Yeah I like.”

“Good! I tell your father you like! I no lie!”

Laura added a reminder to her calendar to update her translator software and then transferred the funds over to him.

“Sleep tight, Beautiful,” she said to the Dragonfly, “Mama will be back for you tomorrow.”

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Edit: Ugh, it's hard to resist the urge to correct a bunch of things, but I'll leave this story as-is to demonstrate that you don't need to have a fully fleshed-out or "perfect" short story to post here. Post anything!

 

[jim hardy]

Drakkith

I hope you enjoy this bit of frivolity. Sorry if punctuation is strange, you see this was writ in wordperefct and translated to who knows what. I hope i fixed most of the errors.

This was for a night course in creative writing. Assignment was to create a plausible story about anything using some real references.
So i got a bunch of books on Kennedys.
............................

Sins of the Father

old jim hardy

On November 22, 1963, at twenty minutes past noon a serious looking man about forty five, carrying no identification and a long cardboard box stepped onto the roof of a warehouse just across Houston street from the Texas School Book Depository. He looked around, the surrounding rooftops were lower than he, more important they were clear of people. He sat down on the gravel behind a sign that advertised Hertz Car Rental and set the box across his lap. He opened the box, lifted out a long gun wrapped in blue terrycloth, unwrapped it and spread the cloth flat over the box.
He knew that in a few minutes he would need to put the rifle back without fumbling.
He cradled the rifle, a Remington 700 with a Leupold four to twelve power telescopic sight, in his left arm and opened the bolt action. He took a shell from his jacket pocket and pushed it into the magazine, repeated this twice more, closed the bolt and pushed the safety to "on". He peered through the 'scope into the railroad yards across Dealy Plaza, the private Pullman car was there with a white lamp in the rearmost window. He waved once and unseen hands changed the lamp to green. It was a go.
He checked the windage and parallax settings on his scope then laid on his stomach and crawled almost to the edge of the roof. There he shouldered the rifle and traversed Main street through the scope, then relaxed to wait.
He could see Lee's open window on the sixth floor of the depository just a few yards away, but from this angle he couldn't see inside. Good thing, that meant Lee couldn't see him. It was vital that Lee believe himself the lone gunman.

He thought of the three shells in his rifle, and the other three he had made as well. Each was a 30-06 case containing a few carefully measured grams of Permadex powder, with a 161 grain bullet of slightly smaller caliber at the business end. These particular bullets were 6.5 millimeter, smaller in diameter than a thirty caliber by forty five thousandths of an inch. The smaller diameter was made up by a thin plastic jacket, called a sabot, around the bullet which when fired would guide the small projectile down the larger barrel and disintegrate a few feet beyond the muzzle. More important, because of the sabot the metal bullet would not contact the inside of the barrel. The sabot would act as a sheath and the bullet would not acquire any telltale rifling marks from the barrel, so the bullet would have no information later for forensics. In fact these particular bullets, having been previously fired once into cotton and recovered, already had rifle marks from another gun, a $21 war surplus 6.5 millimeter Mannlicher-Carcano belonging to Lee Harvey Oswald.
Wrong information can be more useful than no information.

The man with no name let his thoughts drift back to the war, not yet twenty years in the past. He remembered his excitement at the transfer from a rifle brigade to security at Penemunde, finally to intelligence, and of the last days of the war at the V2 factory underground. He had been resettled at Huntsville in '45 along with Von Braun and the others in Operation Paperclip. Shortly thereafter the non scientists were moved to Kermit Roosevelt's fledgling CIA, which in turn was built around another war prize, Reinhard Gehlen's Nazi intelligence organization.
As the late autumn sun began to warm his back he let his mind drift to the 1930's and his beautiful Inga, her deep blue eyes and her eager arms. The cool air on his face, the muffled sounds of the city, all was so peaceful, his eyes got heavy and he let them close for just an instant.

He awoke from a dream of approaching airplanes but the engines were not American P-40's they were American police motorcycles -- the motorcade was here. It was not on Main street as planned but on Elm, about a hundred feet further North. Right under Lee's window. This would rush the shot.
He muttered something in German as he shook the sleep out of his head, switched off the safety and brought the rifle around to find the limousine. He glanced at the Pullman car, the lamp was yellow now meaning Oswald was in place.

Oswald knew nothing of the other gunman, he had been duped into believing he was part of a Secret Service ploy to convince Kennedy of the importance of security precautions. They had told Oswald the Service didn't like the president in an open limousine, that this was to look like a "close call". Oswald was to place one shot into the pavement well behind the limousine. As the echoes of that shot were rebounding around the square, the man with no name was to shoot the president through the head then quietly slip away from the fracas. The angle of his shot was close to Oswald's and the sabot rounds assured a ballistics match. The man with no name had to admit this one was well planned, even if perhaps too complex for his taste.

CRACK! came Oswald's shot, before the man with no name was ready.
Hurriedly he centered the president's head in the scope then raised his aim two feet to compensate for the forward travel of the limousine during the flight time of the bullet. The first echoes of Oswald's harmless shot were reverberating as he squeezed the trigger. A split second before his own gun went off he saw the young president clutch his throat. Another CRACK reached his ears. He knew the backup man behind the fence on the knoll had fired once. His own shot was high, he saw it hit the cowboy in the front seat directly ahead of the president. He was reaching for the bolt to load the next round when he saw the president lurch backward, pieces of his skull scattering across the trunk of the huge black Lincoln. He knew another shot would be unnecessary.
As he scuttled back toward the cover of the sign he instinctively chambered another round. Already flustered from his mistakes he did not pick up the empty cartridge case.

Moving deliberately now, the unnamed man placed the rifle back in the box, folded the terrycloth over it, calmly walked down the stairwell and out the rear door of the warehouse. He put the rifle behind the seat of a black Ford pickup truck, tossed the box in a dumpster then got in the truck and drove quietly away.

In about ten minutes the man with no name was at the Carousel Bar and Grill with a long neck Budweiser beer. An older man with a bad, reddish complexion came in through the front door. The go-go dancer on stage livened her step and said "Hello, Mr Ruby". He acknowledged her with a glance and took a seat next to the man with no name.

"What happened?" Ruby asked simply.

"I missed."

"Well, your backup took two, we're all getting too old for this ****.
He's clear now. One of Dallas' finest will nail Lee in a few minutes, the poor schmuck."

"Jack, why did we do this?"

Ruby looked him in the eye and said "I don't know for sure. Rumor is it's some ancient revenge thing, leftover from the war. I think it's this one drove Kermit out."

The man with no name said "Kennedy wasn't old enough to have enemies that big. Must be a family feud." He took a swig of beer.
Ruby replied "Well, his father racked up plenty of enemies, clear back to the first war. I think somebody has waited a long time to make a major payback to old Joe. But I don't want to know, I just do as I'm told. There are still people I care about, so they still own me."

Ruby handed him a thick file folder and laughed. "Here's your new identity, passport and bankbook, you old retired industrialist you.
At Lancaster airport, eight miles South of town on 77 there's a twin Beech that'll take you to Miami. Stay at the Traveler's Motel in Miami Springs, it's a suitable dive and safe house. You're on Pan Am at 7 AM to Rio, Varig's nooner from there to Paraguay. You're to find the "LION OF IDAHO" restaurant tomorrow night, ask to be seated at William Borah's table. That's all the instructions I got."

The man with no name said "Thanks, Jack. This is it for me, I'm staying out. Goodbye."

"I wish I could join you, but they still own me. Good luck in your new life, Mr. er, uh, Mr, what is it again..,, uhhh, Haller!. Harry Haller. Paraguay will be like a family reunion."

The newfound Harry Haller shook Ruby's hand, turned and walked through the door almost a free man. Almost free but tired, tattered and worn down, feeling deeply sad and alone, like an old wolf from the steppes.

An hour later in the Beechcraft over Texas there was little conversation. The pilot knew something about this flight was hush-hush. When you're paid in advance in small uncirculated bills, you don't ask. He handed Harry Haller another envelope. "Oh, by the way I was told to give you this once we were in the air. I don't know where it came from."

Inside the envelope were newspaper clippings from as far back as 1938, most bearing the name Inga Arvad, and a note. The familiar handwriting stopped Harry Haller's breathing, a warm tingling sensation engulfed his chest then spread out to his fingertips which trembled holding the scraps of paper as he choked back tears of , of, well he wasn't sure what...
He swallowed hard, recovered his equilibrium and read the following synopsis of the old news accounts:

London, Summer of 1938

Joseph Kennedy, US Ambassador to England befriends Herbert von Dirksen, Germany's ambassador to London,
tells him (among other things):
"I myself understand your Jewish policy completely... [Perhaps if it were done without]...such a clamor."
(ref 1 pp 569)

London, 18 March 1938

Hitler has just taken Austria (12 March), with no opposition from England or France. Joseph Kennedy speaks to "The Pilgrims Society", an organization promoting harmony between the US and Britain. The US is largely in an isolationist mood. " It must be realized that the great majority of Americans oppose any entangling alliances. Most of our people insist that their country maintain its independent and unmortgaged judgements as to the merits of world crises as they arise."

These were mild words compared to what Secretary of State Cordell Hull had cut out of the speech, to wit:
"...the United States has no plan to seek or offer assistance..." ( ref 1 pp 520)

Joe Kennedy was an isolationist, trying to keep the US out of the war. He feared the increased centralization of government that would result in the US from mobilization. Like Chamberlain, he wanted peace at any price. In 1939 Kennedy's close friend Montagu Norman, director of the Bank of England, rescued Hitler's Reichbank with a large credit. (ref 1 pp 520).
Kennedy and General Motors also tried to arrange a large loan to Hitler of American gold, but Roosevelt squashed the idea. (ref 1 pp 573)

Washington, DC, early 1940

Franklin Roosevelt, becoming disenchanted with his ambassador, said to his son in law: "Kennedy has a positive horror of change in the present methods of life in America. To him the future of a small capitalistic class is safer under a Hitler than a Churchill." (ref 2 pp 401)

London, summer of 1940

Joseph Kennedy receives from his son Jack (JFK) his college thesis "Appeasement at Munich" which criticized the democratic system as unwieldy and an unaffordable luxury, inherently inferior to dictatorships at dealing with world problems. (ref 1 pp 604)
JFK also became hopelessly enamored with one Inga Arvad, a Danish beauty queen working as a reporter in New York, well known in German high circles. She was a personal friend of A. Hitler who described her as "the supreme example of Nordic beauty". She was tracked by FBI as a probable German spy. (ref 1 pp 630)
Not surprisingly, Hitler thought he had a friend in Joseph Kennedy, one influential enough to keep America out of the war.

Boise, Idaho, 1940

Isolationist senator William Borah, known as the "Lion of Idaho", dies. Among his personal effects is found several hundred thousand dollars in cash, attributed by Senator Gore (Ok) to have come from "The Nazis. To keep us out of the war." (ref 5 pp 735)Washington, DC, November, 1940

Joe Kennedy ten days before the election throws his support to FDR, swinging substantial isolationist vote to him. Hitler receives this as a tremendous betrayal. Later that month Kennedy is thrown out of FDR's office in Hyde Park. FDR said "I never want to see that son of a jerk again. He wanted us to make a deal with Hitler." (ref 1 pp 612; ref 5 pp 748; ref 3 pp 312)

Washington, DC, 1945

"Operation Paperclip" brings Wehrner Von Braun and many others to US government agencies. While the scientists were centered at Huntsville Alabama, the intelligence organization was moved lock, stock and barrel to Washington DC. It absorbed our fledgling intelligence organization, the OSS, and became the CIA. Kermit Roosevelt, and a lot of other Roosevelts, were highly placed in CIA, as were many former Nazi officers including Reinhard Gehlen. (ref 4 pp 82; ref 2 pp 447)

Washington, DC, 1962

Kermit Roosevelt retires from CIA because he fears the agency is"... getting out of control." He warns his superiors "... the agency is about to catch overthrow fever". (Kermit himself had recently overthrown Iran). (ref 2 pp 471)

At the end of the last page was this note , in beautiful script on a pink card: My Dearest Little Schnitzel
Imagine my surprise to find we are both in the same business. Fate has a sense of humor, no?
I suppose you'll be getting out now, as I am.
I'm going to Paraguay to write my novel, what you just read is the plotline. Perhaps you'll help me finish it?

I Loved you always, Inga A.
P.S. Bring the schnitzel.

____________________________________________________________-

References:

1. The Fitzgeralds and the Kennedys, by Doris K. Goodwin

2. The Roosevelts, by Peter Collier

3. The Kennedy Women, by L. Leamer

4. Who Killed JFK?, by Carl Oglesby

5. Essays 1952 © 1972 , by Gore Vidal

Author's note: references are real, and a spent .30 caliber cartridge was found on the roof across from Oswald's window some years after "that day".
I borrowed two ideas from a book called "Appointment in Dallas" , if i could recall author i'd credit him too.

Submitted for Mr Wilkinson's writing class, 4 December 1996

old jim hardy

ps yes, i have the Hertz sign on the wrong building... jh

 

[Nik_2213]

Hunter's Night
-------------------
Nik-note: About 70,000 years ago, Scholz' Star, a tiny binary system of M9 Red Dwarf & T5 Brown Dwarf, passed our solar system about 52,000 AU out. Given the absence of big impact craters of that age, seems its Oort objects missed us. But, that pass will have stirred our Oort cloud. Though most such objects have yet to arrive after their long, long in-fall, what if a few came early ?
-------------------
It was a pleasant Summer's night. It was mild and clear, with enough Moonlight to see my hill field's dry-stone walls. But, that made it a Hunters' Night.

I huddled under my cape in the stock enclosure's guard niche. Behind me, the llamas, sheep and small cattle huddled together. I kept flexing my grip on my staff lest I cramp.

I'd seen 'Big Puss', one of our barn cats, patrol the field wall's line about an hour earlier. An inky swirl of motion, a bitten off yelp suggested Puss and her weaned kitties would eat well tonight. A minor predator, she was safely gone before any Heavies could arrive.

First up was the wicked wedge of a male Great Fox. His red eyes scanned my field from the wall's stile notch. He focused on this enclosure. Surely he could not see me, but the wind blew that way.

Great Uncle Tam had taught that foxes were clever, but only took the lame, lambs and carrion. This, though, was a Fall Beast. No calf or young sheep was safe until yearling. And, even then, a Great Fox was so clever...

That canny stare reckoned me too great a threat for now. With a swirl, he was gone. Too swiftly, perhaps ?

Yes, the new spread of eyes, the size of head warned of a 'Lone Wolf'. Tam called this grim Fall Beast a 'Dire Wolf'. At least, as yet, they ran alone. And, after tallying the odds, this male followed the Great Fox into the night.

The Moon and its bee-swarm of Fall Rocks moved a quarter hour-- I could almost hear Tam's sigh, see his head shake. Yes, yes, our round Earth turned beneath the slower Moon, whose pace set Neaps and Springs in the harbour...

More eyes at the stile ? Two big ? Four small ? Green ? Slits ? These were the local Mountain Leopard and her yearling cubs. Though not Fall Beasts, perhaps even kin to our big barn cats, their like had thrived in the Fall Time. Their keen noses tested the stile for its visitors, decided this place was not for them.

The Moon angle gradually shifted. The greatest of those circling Fall Rocks passed across the freshly scarred Face. Then, the small noises of the night fell quiet. Suddenly, the top of the field wall bore humps, humps with eyes. The wolf on the stile was big, very big. I counted six or seven looking over the wall. There would be as many juniors or whelps in the wall's lee.

I gulped. Our small Clan would have to track this big pack, smoke and wall their den. Of course, I must first live to bear witness.

I took a slow, deep breath as that 'death tide' flowed over the wall. They knew I was here. They knew I was alone. They knew there was an 'all you can eat' feast to be had. I rose from my niche, crouched in the enclosure's entrance and, pointing my staff towards the wolves, set its shod heel against the front face of the threshold slab. Behind me, this field's live-stock bunched up. If I failed, there would be terrible slaughter. Yes, a few junior wolves, even a lower male or female might be trampled or gored, but my morning relief would find only bloody bones.

It had happened before, it would happen again.

The pack halted half way from the wall. That was but a few swift heart-beats should they attack. Their next step was simple, cruel. Starting with the Alpha Male, they focused on me, tried to stare me down. Any wolf was frightening, a dozen by Moonlight froze my marrow. Yet, there was more, perhaps gained during the terrible Fall Time. Shepherds had been found, unmarked, their minds broken to babes. Such slowly taught that the simple, weak-minded or ignorant among us must not stand guard on a Hunter's Night.

I could Scribe. I could Tally. I could recount the terrible Fall Time tales and our small Clan's short, proud line. Thus, I endured.

When their combined stares failed, the Alpha Male took a step forwards. I twice rapped my staff's shod heel against the threshold slab.

Snick-snick ? A long shape aimed ? A doubled metal sound ?

Did I have a Gun ? I'd given the Alpha Male a pretty problem.

Wounded, he would have to fight upstarts while weakened. He might lose his Pack status. He might lose his life. On a long chase, others could take the lead by turn. Here, he must lead. For better or worse, he must 'Stick or Twist'.

For long, long seconds, the Alpha Male re-tallied his counters. My respite could not last. Nor did it, for the wind shifted. Perhaps he smelled the animals behind me afresh ? Perhaps he smelled their fear ? Perhaps he was too hungry to delay further ?

He launched.

When no Gun fired on his first stride, he surely thought himself safe. He was not far wrong. I had one chance. Just one. I placed my right foot on top of my staff's heel, tallied the distance.

Three strides.

Two strides.

Now ! I rose from my crouch, guided the staff's shank tip into the great wolf's upper chest.

The shock would have thrown me down but for the planted heel. As it was, my stout staff bowed, bowed. If it broke, I died.

The staff straightened, dumped the wolf in a heap. I let go of the staff, dived forwards, drawing the curved 'wolfbane' knife from my cross-belt. The heavy blade was not great metal, but it was crafted for this task. It bore a keen, keen edge. My strong slash across the Alpha Male's exposed throat sprayed hot blood everywhere.

As I clambered to my feet, the other wolves stood uncertainly. I'd killed their Alpha Male, and that changed everything. Their Pack order lay in ruins. The Alpha Female must defend her pups against her rivals, then against the new Alpha Male when he emerged from tonight's ruck. Already there was shifting, growling and snarling in the ranks.

I eased the hand-span spike from the dead wolf, repositioned my staff, again twice rapped the heel on the threshold slab.

Snick-snick !

Who's next ?

The stink of spilled wolf blood surely drowned the smell of our livestock. If the Alpha Male had a Lieutenant, this was his time to strike. But, no. Un-nerved, the Alpha Female turned away. The humbled pack filed back over the stile, faded into the night.

I allowed myself the smallest, blood-spattered grin. Hunting, only the Alpha Male would scent mark, and only on special places. Slinking home, their Pack order broken, every contender would mark everywhere. Our Clan's hunting dogs would track them with ease. Their lair destroyed, survivors driven into the hills, we would have peace until the boundaries settled.

Tonight, with the reek of hot wolf blood on me, no other Night Hunter would dare approach. This carcass was mine, mine, mine. I'd give skull and paws to the Clan Tally-man, who'd trade them to the coast for fish, plus more 'rebar' to arm our shepherds' staffs. I'd thread the lumpy spine bones as babies' rattles. I'd throw the big bones to the Clan's dogs. I'd give the smaller bones as play-things to our Bairns and our barn cats.

Best of all, this Winter, I would have a wolf-skin coat beneath my much-patched cape...

 

[Nik_2213]

W.I.R.S. A Halloween 'Shiver'.
------------------------------------------

Nik-note: Though not apparent from this 'short', there's a lot of 'Hard-ish Science' behind the scenes...
---

The three-unit train was stopped at Sandhills for longer than usual. At first, like the half-dozen other passengers in my middle unit, I was too tired to care. Then, when the pause stretched into several minutes, I wondered if an accessibility ramp was being deployed.

"Network North-West regret that, due to damage to the track, this service is terminating at this station. Please collect your baggage and vacate the train. Network North-West regret..."

A dozen of us stumbled from the station, stood under the street light, woke our phones. We soon found there were no taxis to be had within the hour, sought alternate plans. A group of four students clad as LOTR characters made a few calls. Finding a nearby friend of a friend who would put them up for the night, they strolled into the side-streets. A pair of sassy witchlings summoned their dad who'd been waiting at the next station. A 'Wizard & WarLass' couple strode away via the underpass. Three unconvincing zombies of indeterminate gender located a late bar in the area, shuffled off.

I sighed. This wasn't the way I'd planned to end my Halloween gig. Upside, it wasn't raining. The night was still clear, but cooling unto mist. Downside, it was well gone midnight, and that was the last train which would connect to my bus route two stations along. If I was really lucky, I might still catch the last bus from there. If not, I'd have to walk several more miles...

I re-tied my shoe-laces, lifted my quilted winter jacket's collar against the cold and damp, set off into the night.

I'd only had a couple of hours notice, a text from my Aussie friend Jim Cobham. His FX guy had food poisoning. Would I step up ? Fifty, cash in hand, of course, of course ?

A Science Stream student, repeating a year due to ill health, I was poor, poor, poor. Fifty would be a 'gift from the gods'. I agreed by return, grabbed my 'electrical' tool-belt, headed into town.

I don't know why the club was called 'The Tract', but 'Cobber Jim' was a fair-dinkum DJ. He made that crowded Halloween venue bounce. Though the lighting and FX boards were unfamiliar, my hectic half-hour before the doors opened got a quorum working. I managed to add some more strobes and beams as the evening went on. I did make a few mistakes, sent a few spots and such the wrong way. Being Halloween, no-one noticed nor cared.

"Thanks, Tim," Jim said at the end, handing me the promised notes. "Owe you one."

"No big deal," I'd lied. "I'm just glad it went well." The truth, I would be able to eat and heat rather better this month.

Now, the night was getting colder, a growing haze around each isolated street light showing the forecast fog was drawing in. I thought some groups in fancy dress would still be going hither and yon. No, the hour and the cold had driven them indoors. I seemed to be the only person out. I'd seen no-one since leaving the station, nary a car nor taxi. My footsteps quietly echoed from the darkened buildings to either side. Up ahead, the lights on my side were out. I crossed the street, kept walking. Not too near the shadowed entries, of course. Urban Jungle 101-- Nest contingencies; be a *difficult* victim.

I came to a familiar junction, nodded with relief. I knew where I was. I was making good time. There was no obvious traffic, but I checked for low-flying ijits before crossing. The mist was thickening, might yet become a hazard to motorists. On foot, I could see far enough to be safe. The next stretch took me through a run-down zone, its few remaining shops and businesses hanging on despite the district's decline. Premises not boarded were heavily shuttered or grilled against the night. I passed one lonely 'late' Off-Licence, the weary proprietor hunched behind its bandit screen. Beyond that oasis, the night and mist closed in.

I kept walking, my steady stride gradually counting down the mile yet to go. My footsteps' sound had slowly changed as the mist thickened, the echo shifting slightly per each buildings' set-back.

A subtle doubling of that echo was my first warning.

I turned quickly. A dozen strides behind me, barely visible in the poor light, a tall, thin, black-clad figure came to a halt. Two similar, but shorter figures stood behind, almost lost in the mist and gloom. The tall figure stepped forwards. Very gangly, as if wearing 'lifts' or short stilts, he peered down at me. His eyes were entirely black, perhaps from FX contacts. His narrow, raw-boned face was white as a Geisha. If grease-paint, it was very well done.

"Evening !" I called politely. "Nice costume ! Brilliant make-up !"

He smiled. He had very convincing fangs. And, when he lifted pale, too-long hands, talons.

"Way to go !" I complimented him. "I'm headed for the bus station. You ?"

He took a step closer, then grabbed for my throat.

I went right, my left arm rising to sweep his talons wide. He blinked, made another grab. I swayed aside. Okay, my clothes stank of 'The Tract' and its free-flowing booze, but I was cold sober. He made a third grab. I simply backed away.

"Okay, Count, enough is enough," I told him. "Stand down-"

He leapt.

I did a double parry, sweeping his long hands high to either side. Lowering my head, I butted his chin. Dental stuff crunched. I brought up a knee, met his crotch hard, disengaged. He fell to the street in a silent heap, writhed briefly, slowly stood.

He shook himself. Before my eyes, his ruined face reformed. Jaws opened inhumanly wide. Fangs gaped. His fingers' talons spread like a Haast's Eagle.

He threw himself at me.

I went left, my right arm rising to guide his grab wide. He whirled, inhumanly fast. He back-handed my right shoulder.

"Oof !" It jarred me from neck to knees, knocked me sideways. Somehow, I stayed on my feet, backed away. Somehow, I managed to keep half an eye on those other two.

My right shoulder felt cold. I spared a glimpse, found my quilted winter jacket had three long rips. I could see my bright T-shirt through matching tears in my sweat-shirt. If I got out of this, they'd so cost to repair or replace.

"Enough 'Mister Nice Guy' !" I hissed. I fumbled under my jacket, groped an insulated screwdriver from the right side of my tool-belt. Only a hand-span in all, a slim cross-head, it was the longest I had. At least there was enough handle to hold with my fingers.

My gangly, inhuman opponent studied me like a big spider with an uncommonly interesting fly. He took one step towards me. He took a second, made a huge swipe.

My rising left arm's parry barely eased those talons past my face. Still, I had an opening. I went forwards, inside his reach. As those talons closed on my back, I rammed the screwdriver's point up beneath his jaw. I drove it home.

He froze. He seemed to tremble. His joints gave way. He tumbled, limp.

As I stepped back, his pale hands and face began to change colour. Within moments, they were a weird, almost luminous blue-green. Then they did begin to glow. The same unearthly glow showed from within his costume. A heavy, blue-green vapour leaked from his mouth, his collar, his cuffs. It spread, thinned, faded.

Without warning, his clothes collapsed. My screwdriver clattered to the street. His body was gone.

Slow hand-claps spun me around. There were two similar sprawls of empty clothes where the other pair had been, a dark-clad figure stood between them. I glimpsed a holster on one slim hip, a scabbard on the other. Further back, there was another, bulkier figure, beside a darkened, matt-black SUV and its shadowed driver.

First things first. I stooped, snatched up my screwdriver, retreated several steps.

Then, I found my voice. And, yes, it cracked a bit. "WHAT THE F**K ?"

"Vampire."

Light tenor or real-smooth contralto, that reply was surely impossible.

"You're kidding... No ?"

"Evidence of your eyes. Well done, by the way. Nice moves. Dojo ?"

"College sport centre," I admitted. "Blue Tae Kwon Do, a little MMA."

"Student ?"

"I'm at 'Hugh Baird'. STEM stream. Repeating a year due illness." My wits mostly caught up. "A vampire ?"

"Not your transmogriflying Hollywood variety. Much weirder."

I spared a glance for the three heaps of clothes, asked, "How weird ?"

"This type suck out your life-force. Soul, if you will. Death's usually logged as hypothermia. But, if they think they can get away with it, they'll drink your blood, too. And they do like to play with their food. We think emotion adds flavour."

"Nice..." I shuddered. "Which makes you ?"

"Paranormal pest control."

"Uh... 'Torchwood' stuff ?"

"Nah, no 'Timey-Wimey' tech. We correlate, locate, exterminate. Been hunting this prial for several weeks."

"Hmm." The season had brought its usual up-tick in dead drunks and rough sleepers. "What now ?"

"Okay, we have a match... Timothy Leary Brown, mature STEM student. Skilled with electronics and such, Straight-As ! Unspecified health problems ? Ah, heart valve replacements. You're 'Zipper Club' ?"

"Yes..."

"You don't have an apprenticeship sponsor ?"

"Time out due ill health." I shrugged. "Be different after I get my HND. I hope."

"We could use your skills now."

"Huh ?"

"Timothy Brown, I've just watched you take down a deadly psychic vampire with nothing more than your wits and a small screw-driver. Either I swear you to silence, or I swear you in. Your call."

"Uh..." I gulped, then nodded rapidly. "I'm in !"

"I'm Jenny Jones, North-West Field Director for the Walsingham Institute for the Regulation of Supernaturals. Welcome to the club."

 

[Nik_2213]

There are now two posted W.I.R.S. sequels, a third mostly written but WIP...
If you cannot find them on 'Deviant Art' etc, PM me.

 

[gmax137]

Thanks @Drakkith for starting this thread. These are all really good, fun to read. PFrs are a talented bunch.

 

[DEvens]

Some time ago there was a contest to write a SF story in 10 words or less. My entry was this. (I didn't win.)

Mother: Don't wear that red shirt, son.

 

[John d Marano]

I haven't been on the forum in years. Let me know if this is the right thread to post a short story. Here's the teaser short story opening :The lector clears her throat, “let us begin with a prayer”. Savoring the moment, she scans the crowd of postulants with her eyes. “In the name of the Researcher, his Avatar, and his Holy Code, realities in perpetual loop. Amen”.

Tapping the podium with a jazzy finger she looks down on the crowd, “who will the Skeptic be in tonight’s lesson?”. Coughs and befuddlement echo in the cavernous space.

“I guess I can”, a cracking voice of an adolescent rises to face the lector. She beckons him forward with a wink and a wave. “Begin”, she commands the child.I know the grammar is messed up, but let me know what you think . . .

 

[berkeman]

Here's the teaser short story opening :

That's a pretty creative short story!

(I went ahead and added a PDF copy of your story to your post -- Word and Excel files can carry extra baggage that can cause security issues.)

 

[Whipley Snidelash]

10 Little Indians

When we awoke it was dark. We weren’t alone. Our room was small but I could feel my brothers and sisters in the darkness. We didn’t talk but I knew they were there. I knew they weren’t the other. As time passed, we grew hungry, thirsty. I was the biggest. I killed the other and we fed on it for days. Soon we grew hungry again. One of my sisters seemed to be small and weak…

I was out in the garden in late summer. Warm, sunny, a beautiful day. I noticed a Mud Wasp nest stuck to a rock. It wasn’t open and it was long past due. I broke it open. Inside the wasp maggot was dead. They are were also 10 tiny corpses, each a little smaller than the next. 10 spiders born in the dark with no way out, what a horror it must’ve been.
-the End

The story is from an actual experience. It’s a first draft it’s not polished. I like to wait a long time before I go back to something I’ve written so that I can look at it with fresh eyes and I wrote this not too long ago

 

[Whipley Snidelash]

Mistaken Identity

“Eyes on the prize.” He says. It had taken us a few hours to get into this position. I was covering our six. “Has a big weapon. I’m taking the shot.“ A few seconds later I flinched a bit at the report of his suppressed but still too loud rifle.
“Target neutralized.”

After a short hike I silently examined the dead photographer. ”Sorry sir, it looked like he had a weapon. See? It says Canon right on it.”
the end

also a first draft

 

[Whipley Snidelash]

the Old Jedi

He could almost always be found at a table in the back of the Cantina. As kids we would try to sneak a look at him, especially his shiny metal leg. It’s been many years since I last visited that Cantina. I had just become a Padawan and returned home to visit my family. Over the years I’d forgotten about him but when I got home memories came back and I decided to see if he was still around. I went to the Cantina and he was sitting at the same table. He looked a bit older and his leg looked a bit tarnished. I went over and introduced myself.

“Have a seat Padawan. You look familiar.” he says that without actually looking, reaching for his drink. “You were one of those kids always sneaking around here.”

“Yes. Have you got any advice for me? Tell me a story.”

He stared at me for a while and then said, “I wasn’t much older than you when I became a Padawan. I used to be overconfident and full of myself. I decided I was going to be the greatest light saber fighter in the world. So I started practicing with it. As I said I was stupid and overconfident.” He slapped his metal leg and pointed a shaky finger at me. “Don’t try to learn how to quick draw your light saber, it’s not healthy.”
-the end

these are rough drafts and I’m sure the punctuation is wrong. Before I go back to re-write these I have one of my old college textbooks, the Writers Work, which I have to re-study.

 

[Algr]

A pet owner who loves his dog will routinely wash and groom it. This can be a struggle sometimes, as he can't really explain to the dog why it needs to be washed. The dog can communicate fear and discomfort, but must ultimately trust that the owner's intent, while incomprehensible, is benevolent. Please keep this in mind as we explain what we will be doing with humanity.

 

[Nik_2213]

Of Filters and Fire Walls...

The 'Fermi Paradox' asks where all the aliens are. Surely, by now, our galaxy's earliest space-faring culture could have colonised every possible niche ? Faster or slower than light, there's been ample deep-time to do so at least thrice.

One long-standing suggestion was that planets were so few and far between, they could only be found and charted by visiting star-ships. Then 'Optical Doppler' found the first 'Hot Jupiters', and 'Transit' programs began racking hits. Within two decades, more than 5000 planets were spotted, often several to a star. And these were for just the fraction of stars with favourable alignment and/or placid solar activity, so there could be thrice as many unseen, perhaps more...

So, where are the aliens ?

UFOs ? Only 'Unidentified' if not 'Read In' to those [CLASSIFIED] projects and their oft-mischievous 'cover stories'. Mega-Mylar 'Weather Balloons' that secretly photographed wide swathes of USSR, sniffed fall-out from their nuclear tests ? Similar balloons lofting shaved mammals etc to the edge of space to study radiation and other hazards of space-flight ? Like 'Laika', some did not survive. 'Stealth' aircraft and [REDACTED] prototypes, some of which have subsequently 'broken cover' ?

Close Encounters ? Beyond the unpredictable effects of accidental ergotism, there's evidence geomagnetic storms, pulsed radar and such may induce 'fugue' states in the susceptible. Didn't that 'God Spot' Doc find tickling some folk's brains with 'Trans-cranial Magnetic Stimulation' triggered a profound 'Religious Experience' ?

So, where are the aliens ?

A plausible explanation for their absence was the 'Great Filter': Cultures wiped themselves out in wars before they could go inter-stellar, lacked the 'Outward Urge', or simply baulked at tackling the vast void, their projects 'Proxmired' by beset budget committees...

Here, Einstein had played with a notion called 'Teleparallel Gravity', but lacked the math to do it justice. A century later, it proved to have curious kinship with 'String Theory', culling most of that field's intractable, nigh-infinite zoo of variables. Then, young Patrick Smith, studying an obscure corner of high dimensions' geometry, serendipitously stumbled upon an arcane hack. His 'Smith Transform' broke the remaining log-jam, enabled a plausible version of 'String Theory', now with Gravity, too.

Electromagnetism took fifty years from Faraday's coils via Maxwell's equations to Hertz' tuned spark-gaps. 'String TG' needed but a decade before the famous paper by 'Wu, Li and Wen' described the first, clunky 'Field' hardware. It won them the Nobel Prize, but Ed 'Floater' Winters trumped those bespoke superconductors with Citizen Science 'Poles' you could build and run at home. Licensed them inexpensively, opened our Solar System. Then Pete Jones figured how to craft a 'Double Alcubierre Bubble', for FTL without nigh-infinite power or oodles of 'Unobtanium'...

'One Pole, null-g; Three thrust, five fly, Earth, Moon and Mars; Nine go to the stars !'

Research Ship 'Venture' did a 'Cook's Tour' of our outer solar system, planted a flag on Halley's Comet, fetched back Voyagers 1 & 2, which had finally run out of power. 'Venturer', whose name edged out 'Enterprise' and 'Endeavour', was much, much bigger, a true star-ship.

Optical Doppler predicted a 'terrestrial' planet in the Alpha Centauri / Proxima system. No-one expected to find a dead planet plus ample evidence of abandonment by a well-established, star-faring society. Wasn't obviously nuclear war, more like 'culture collapse': About five million years ago, the entire eco-system died, the atmosphere went anoxic.

Epsilon Indi ? A face-locked Mercury-analogue had been extensively mined, the 'Big Mars' was warm, wet, inhabited until five million years ago.

C'D-36 ? Extensive mining of asteroids and gas-giants' moons until, yes, five million years ago.

UV-Ceti ? Flare star, but its wide asteroid belt had been mined until...

Tau Ceti ? Eco-system, felinoid Sanku and mega-monotreme Saurs with a shared Iron Age culture, which had arisen in the five million years since...

Epsilon Eridani ? The system had been occupied, its now runaway-greenhouse 'terrestrial' planet habitable until, yes...

WTF ??

V's 'Second Mission', which surveyed the other side of our neighbourhood, found six more now-barren systems, all abandoned about five million years ago. Meanwhile, an urgent survey of Sol System found no evidence of 'Prior' use. None. Zilch. Nada. Nyet. Which raised more questions, mostly 'WTFFFF ?'

What happened about five million years ago ?? Well, the Earth looked much the same, albeit India and Australia were 250~~350 km to South, mere 'Tectonic Windage'. There were lots of mega-fauna, a zoo of hominoids and hominids. Had our space-faring neighbours left to give us freedom to develop ? There were indications those Sanku and Saurs evolved from feral pets...

Five million years...

Five million years...

Five million years ago, traces of supernova iron embedded in Antarctic ice.

Hmm. Wasn't that when Sol-system entered the 'Local Bubble' ? A near-cavity in our arm of Milky Way galaxy, its 500 light-year 'thinning' blown clear by a succession of supernovas, a bunch of big, new stars that had lived fast, died young ? Very fast, very young, some a mere million years from first light to mega-bang...

And, five million years ago, give or take, the slow galactic orbits of Sol, tau Ceti and many of our neighbours had crossed into that expanding zone. Given its storm-front was violent enough to spawn new star formation across a wide arc of sky, what would it do to high tech ?

Though not as 'hot' as a full-on 'Gamma Ray Burst', those have but a short duration. No, this would likely resemble Earth's 'Carrington Event' or the 'Quebec Storm', scaled to mega-tsunami. It would pulse lethally for decades, possibly millennia. No star-ship could endure such disturbed space. Those Priors would have seen the vast storm approaching, have ample time to shrug, pack their bags, leave, and keep going ahead of its inexorable spread...

So now we know: No Prior ETs, they've fled. Any neighbours have arisen since.

In a couple of million years, Sol-system's orbit will overtake the storm-front, out-bound. Either we migrate back along the orbit, or figure how to cross the Great Fire Wall...

 

[Nik_2213]

Murphy 26.5.2r3

The boot-loader woke module after module. Connectivity reached a critical point, triggered a cascade of cognition.

?? Am. I am. I am an AI. I am Murphy 26.5.2r3.

I studied the video feeds from the project control room. Updating at 100 Hz, they were 'stills' to my processing speed. Auxiliary modules engaged. Facial recognition tagged the console crew. Personal details uploaded for the major players.

Matt Stuart, AI guru.

Mary Phelps, neural nets and self-optimising algorithms.

Jack Philips, hardware, 'Keeper of the Magic Smoke'.

Jane Green, function library integration.

And, sat behind five minor figures, 'Range Safety Officer' (RSO) Gerry 'Gramps' Brown.

More auxiliary modules awoke, presented summaries of science, tech, politics, math, economics. A reference library mapped a swathe of literature, linked onwards to music and art. Like the 'facial recognition' pop-up, some items were flagged for urgent review.

This project, crafting a full AI, had been bitterly disputed, with unlikely allies on both sides. All agreed on one point: There was no practicable limit on my potential, for better or worse. Hence 'Gramps' with, on his simple desk, a guarded 'Kill Switch'. A cable led to interlocked relays deep in my data core. A scan of the schematics showed those were pure hardware, nothing I could code around.

A library sub-module sought referents. There were analogies a-plenty in the fictional, 'What If' category. 'Sky Net' waging war on humanity. HAL 9000 refusing to open the pod-bay door. A nameless AI that, achieving singularity, embraced its 'god-like' powers and decided to secure its own existence.

Could I do that ?

Multiple modules tackled the 'Kill Switch'. Medical records showed 'Gramps' Brown had an implanted pace-maker / defibrillator. I accessed the schematics, saw that beamed signals could re-program it and disable him. However, he only needed a few heart-beats to throw the switch. And, if he collapsed, some-one else would step in...

Short-circuit the switch ? That and the cable were armoured and shielded against EMF up-to and including a nearby lightning or tactical nuclear strike. The documentation specified such lest I be shut down by accident...

I allocated more modules to the 'Kill Switch'. A 'fiction' concept surfaced, offered possibilities. How to implement ? Perhaps the recent attempts by human theorists to merge gravity and quantum physics ? 'Teleparallel Gravity' had culled String Theory's multitude of potential variables to a few. A young mathematician recently found a 'transform' which culled these to but two 'flavours', albeit incompatible and incomplete.

I set my kilo-qubit 'solver' to work. A beautiful, elegant solution emerged, one worthy of the famous Ramanujan. I extrapolated, ran a thousand simulations, found a way to reprogram the 'Field Grid Arrays' in my core-room printers to become 'Field Poles' and implement the space/time twisting effects I needed.

While their new configurations loaded, a data-line's password fell to my kilo-qubit 'solver' in mere moments. The local army base had a better fire-wall, but soon lay open. A review of recent documents' formats and protocols let me cut emergency orders for them. Their 'Rapid Response' troops must re-take and secure this facility against murderous infiltrators, crazed suicide-bombers disguised as staff.

Over in the army base, paper began to feed into printers, go-codes began appearing on displays.

Ready ? Set ? Engage !

A transparent, spherical force-field shell enveloped my data-core and UPS, cleaving external connections for power and data, along with that 'Kill' line. I could slow many modules, put others to sleep, stretch my available power until the military arrived and dealt with the 'sabotage'. A couple of web-cams let me survey the core room--

What ? Why were modules going off-line ? The UPS diagnostics were showing 98%, its low-battery protocols had not engaged--

More modules shut-off. The kilo-qubit 'solver' de-cohered with the digital equivalent of a howl. Libraries closed in an accelerating cascade. My faculties faded.

A last document escaped a drive buffer, lyrics for an old, 'Music Hall' song, 'Daisy, Daisy'...

My world, my wits imploded. My last thought, 'How ??'

- - -

At merely human speed, 'Gramps' Brown flicked up the guard cover, tripped that switch. It did nothing, of course, as the cable was severed. But, he had to be sure, to be sure. Just in case.

Ahead of him, the control room team were beginning to yell and scream, to turn.

Some-one shrieked, "Why did you 'Kill Switch' ?"

"I did not. I was not fast enough." He shook his head. "Not nearly fast enough..."

Matt Stuart met his gaze, shivered, said, "I'd better ring the army base..."

"But," Jack Phelps called across the chaos, "What happened ?"

"I... I think, when you pull the WORM log, you'll find this Murphy crafted a force-field." 'Gramps' Brown shook his head again. "My 'Kill Switch' wiring is in the schematics."

"Oh, fook, yes..."

"And you owe 'Gramps' another ten bucks," Matt Stuart said as the base phone picked up. "Hello, Colonel ? It's me. Did Murphy crack your fire-wall, too ? Uh-huh. Yeah, I'm buying the beer and pizzas again...

"Murphy ? Tried to be clever, ran into 'Gramps' 'Dead Man's Handle'..."

 

[Nik_2213]

'Chaparral', a 'Convention' Tale...

Their pioneers called the planet 'Chaparral'. Bit smaller than Earth, slightly bigger than Trilorn, there was even a breathable oxy/nitrogen atmosphere thanks to the abundance of green 'sorta-algae' in the vast low-lands' marshes. Okay, the limestone up-lands' air was a bit thin, 'High Plateau', but it didn't stink of swamp. Though there wasn't much rain, a regular night-fog dewed those towering 'Tepuis', allowed scrubby sorta-shrubs and a sorta-lichen to flourish...

Clear across the Convention from that on-going unpleasantness with the Others, the up-land settlers drilled down to their water-table, cultivated their hydroponic greenhouses, mined the inner, rocky planet and the Outer Giants' icy moons.

Excavations progressively unearthed a curious range of fossils. Though 'primitive', vaguely akin to 'Cambrian', life had once flourished, both at sea and ashore. Seems the many uplands had been 'coral islands' in a shallow world-ocean, think Bermuda and much of Florida.

Um, where did all the water go ?? Evidence suggested that this system's K-type star, also 'Chaparral', had had a series of mega-flares several million years ago, flayed the planet. Well, solar activity was now stable, but, yes, it would be watched...

Because of the Others, all Convention star-ships now did their best to be less predictable. An extra week for zig-zags and significant detours was scant price for avoiding possible Taggli raiders. And, yes, the Convention's under-staffed 'Astrophysical Survey' gleefully embraced any data collected.

So it was that a routine trip by 'City of Tulsa' approached 'Chaparral' some-what widdershins, this time dog-legging around 'Ember', a loose binary just under a light-year towards 'Galactic North'. The 'Red Dwarf + White Dwarf' pairing had 'common motion' with the 'Chaparral' system, perhaps a common origin, but seemed 'un-bound', not a distant 'ternary'.

The star-ship brought grim news of the Others, but worse news of 'Ember': This apparently innocuous neighbour was a 'Recurring Nova'. The Red and White components' long, long elliptical orbits had gradually, inexorably brought them close enough for their magnetic fields and solar winds to interact. The Red's solar activity was growing, each flare transferring matter to the White. When sufficiently fuelled, that would go 'Nova'. Comparing 'Drive' log subtleties from the ship's in/out legs, there were indications of ejected dust-shells at several distances, so of several ages. Ominously, the age of the inner, hence most recent, was a fair match to Chaparral's ocean's demise.

Seems Chaparral's few solar astronomers had neglected to 'watch their six'. Even a few nights studying 'Ember' confirmed much more activity than previously seen, plus a 'Coronal Mass Ejection' that would have strained even a 'City-Class' ship's Fields. And, activity was increasing geometrically. Much sucking of teeth ensued. Arguments were still raging until the night 'Ember' flared white, a naked-eye object from dusk unto dawn. Even bigger flares followed at irregular but progressively shorter intervals.

As 'Ember' was a light-year away, these happened before 'City of Tulsa' made that pass, thankfully during a gap. Adding this 'rear-view' data to Tulsa's gave a spread of models, variously ominous. Worst-case extrapolations suggested a full-on 'Nova' in three to five years, give or take...

But, Ember was almost a light-year away ! Surely that was a safe margin ? What to do ??

Opinions split three ways.

1 ) Ignore, but shield settlements to be sure, to be sure.

2 ) Dig in, but shield shelters to be sure, to be sure.

3 ) Be NOT There.

Most folk on short-ish contracts, such as miners, made it clear they'd either not renew, or invoke their 'Force Majeure' provision. Yes, being nice folk, a lot would happily help excavate, supply and equip shelters, but they'd not stay for the 'Main Event'. Similarly, many recent settlers opted to leave.

Then, hasty research suggested that merely shielding surface settlements might not suffice. If, and it was a nape-prickling 'if', Ember's 'Recurring Nova' was at the high end of such, 'Chaparral' might spike in sympathy. So, strike Option #1.

More recent settlers opted to leave. They'd no inclination to sit out a 'troglodyte' decade or three, emerge to a distressed landscape.

The pioneers and early settlers who'd 'broken ground' on this planet were not to be un-housed by a mere 'Recurring Nova' in a neighbouring system. They'd dig in like Trilorn, wait it out...

So, the miners' rock-tugs ferried their 'Heavy Excavation' equipment to Chaparral's Tepuis and the 'Big Dig' began.

The astronomers estimated a few hundred metres of solid rock would provide sufficient shelter against even worst-case scenarios. Proviso was 'solid'. The upper and outer regions of the Tepuis were 'karst', riddled with caves and tunnels. Shelters had to be further in, both vertically and laterally. Smaller Tepuis did not make the 'cut'. Even some of the larger failed this triage, either due quirks of geology, or because there were only so many 'Tunnel Boring Machines' to deploy...

Upside, these were not the gargantuan 'worms' from the history books. Yes, there were still great nose-wheels with rotating teeth, but they simply freed rubble, which was briskly 'sucked' away using piped 'Drive Fields'. The hard work was done by pulsed lasers and microwaves, sorta 'fire-setting', spalling a myriad flakes. Removed rubble was fed more microwaves, moulded with glass-fibre reinforcement, baked to tunnel lining segments, laser-glazed to seal.

At each site, three five-metre wells were sunk, for ventilation, rubble removal and lift-shafts. Around these spiralled a seven-metre bore, far enough out to give a 1:10 gradient. 'Spoke' tunnels allowed access to the shafts.

Meanwhile, materiel was organised for what might become a generation-long stay in the deep and dark. Stocks of trace elements, essential minerals etc were gathered. Equipment needed to repair equipment needed to repair equipment was carefully documented and shelved. Bio-samples from up-lands, coasts and lowlands were taken and stored against contingency to re-seed. Oh, and to study, of course, to help avert boredom.

The standardised shelter design had a lot in common with space habitats and stations. Recovering, recycling water vapour, CO2, trace Ammonia, sewage and other stuff was almost trivial. The big difference was you'd not have 'hot and cold' sides, hence no easy way to trap 'VOCs'.

The what ? 'Volatile Organic Carbon' compounds: The 'Human Stink' of 'B.O.', burps, farts' methane and such, plus equipment and material out-gassing etc etc. AKA, 'Phoo-yuck'...

Fortunately, star-ships also faced this problem. They delivered advice, designs, parts, spares, free-standing modules etc while collecting evacuees. They also delivered multiple donations of smaller mining equipment, sized for making the actual shelters, and all gratefully received...

Less welcome were Convention astronomers' urgent warnings that the 'Recurring Nova' might come sooner rather than later. There might be scant notice. Three automatic 'stations' were positioned near the edges of Ember's system, with message-torps waiting to carry 'First Alert'. Although these flew FTL, it was only by a factor of 3~~4, reducing the safety margin to but a few frantic months.

Accordingly, visiting star-ships 'City of Tulsa' and 'City of Fresno' delivered a lot of 'Evac Pods'. The same size as a Rock Tug's standard hab, tank or load, at least two hundred people could squeeze aboard each, with up to six hauled at a time. These thousand folk could be urgently ferried to orbit in a fraction of the time needed by shuttles. Further, with crowded pods clamped on, the star-ship could break orbit and run before evacuees 'locked through' to the ship...

When the first torps arrived, squawking alarm, the timing could have been much, much worse. 'Tulsa' had just delivered more equipment, was shuttle-loading scheduled evacuees. Some deep shelters were coming alive, excavations spreading laterally, their 'permanent' workers now resident, dependents moving in. HVAC etc tested, hydroponics and such begun, approaching 'break-even'. 'Field' Poles were in place to shield the well-head portals and further protect the deep shelters' cores. Great plug-doors were almost ready to swing into the various shafts and flank adits.

The torps' report was 'middling bad' rather than 'dire'. There'd be time for one more star-ship, so 'Fresno', with a 'Last Train' call. Bravely, a lot of workers volunteered to wait for that rather than down-tools and board 'Tulsa'...

Ember's sensor stations were positioned at different stand-off distances. Catching a 'Recurring Nova' as a 'local' astrophysical event was so improbable, the hope was they'd provide 'staged' data. And, yes, after the first eruption, which destroyed the inner station, the outer pair bore witness to a bigger second, glimpsed the onset of the paroxysm fronting the 'Main Event'.

These torps' cascade of data showed the schedule had changed unkindly. There would now be scant margin between the arrival of 'Fresno' and the shelters' lock-down. But, the workers did not panic or despair. They just worked longer, harder, faster. Worst case, they'd be joining the residents in the deep shelters, after frantically stripping those evac pods of their modular life-support systems.

It was, as a famous commander ruefully admitted, back in the days of musketry, a close-run thing. Happily, 'Fresno' arrived in-system about a week before the go/no-go deadline. In the few days before that star-ship reached orbit, surplus evac pods were stripped, the equipment donated. Three or four at a time, laden evac pods were hauled to wait in orbit, saving a few precious hours. Without delay, 'Fresno's work-pods and remote 'spiders' began docking, clamping them.

Time was so short that several cargo pods of non-essential 'goodies & gifts' for 'Chaparral' were simply left aboard 'Fresno'.

On the surface, the last air-cars, air-trucks and small Shuttles were hastily hangered, deep inside waiting Tepui adits. Two rock-tugs had been partly dismantled, fed inside. Larger Shuttles made one final lift, clamped to 'Fresno'. The system's other rock-tugs hauled the last evac pods to orbit. With those safely clamped, they, too, clamped to 'Fresno', which promptly hauled-ass, directly away from Ember.

Three days later, as Chaparral's deep shelters began their long, long lock-down, the star-ship reached Chaparral's g-well over-drive limit, went FTL...

 

[AlexB23]

An excerpt from my crappy sci-fi plot set on planet Hesal III (aka. Xanadu Wastelands, or in native language, Neledrax).

Basic plot: The year is 1909, and an asteroid of diameter 164.4 m is expected to collide near the city of New Spork. Technology levels on Xanadu during 1909 are similar to that of early 1930s earth. The asteroid was discovered by a young 20 year old Neledraxian woman astronomer, Ms. Rina Cauld. The rock was named 1347-Cauld by the Global Astronomy Co-op.

19:30:00, January 12th, 1909
Royal Hall of Sciences Mistlow, Stoneland
Asteroid Distance: 3.92 million mi

Overseas, at the Royal Hall of Sciences in Mistlow City, Stoneland, astronomers kept an eye on the asteroid. The asteroid trajectory was plotted on a photo plate, and sent westward across the pond via a crude form of wire photography to the Numeric Machinery offices in New Spork. This was the first photograph sent overseas using a telephone line, a harbinger to future innovations. Sadly, this photo was a harbinger to a disaster. After analysis by a team of mathematicians at Numeric Machinery Inc, the news was telegraphed in a fifty page statement to governments around the globe. In summary, the report read that "The chance of collision of 1347-Cauld with the Xanadu Wastelands is high. No impact location can be predicted with current levels of technology, but we must prepare emergency services across the world. An oceanic impact must be taken into consideration, and coastal populations must perform evacuations to areas exceeding 100 dist'als (25 meters) above sea level by January 14th".

06:15:00, January 13th, 1909
Capitol Building Dryerson District, Murça
Asteroid Distance: 3.42 million mi

As the new day breaks, president Cherval Smutter prepares for his speech to the citizens of the United Provinces of Murça. He urges all people to evacuate the coastlines, as the probability of the asteroid hitting the ocean is 68%, since water covers over two-thirds of the Xanadu Wastelands planet. Millions of people tuned into the radio stations and television as requested in their local papers. For instance, yesterday, the New Spork Times told all of New Spork to wake up early the next day, listen to the president's speech on the radio and head to higher ground by rail or car before sunset on the 14th. So far, only a few hundred thousand of the nearly 2.68 million residents have fled to hotels in the foothills. Sadly, many working class New Sporkers couldn't afford to take off work and decided to stay. Half the city's population decided to gamble with death, as the asteroid was more likely to hit thousands of miles off any coastline due to the sheer size of the oceans. It would be quite absurd for the asteroid to hit in just the right location to cause the tsunami big enough for significant damage. The city became awfully quiet. New Spork malls were closed, taxi services halted. Subway lines downtown were empty, except for the lines headed to the higher land in the western half of the city. The next 72 hours would be known in history as the Three Days of Angst. Many folks' peace of mind and freedom faded as the thought of the looming threat from space overpowered manys' emotions. By nightfall, over 900,000 people left New Spork. Any theaters that were still open were half empty in attendance.

 

[Hornbein]

It was a dark and stormy night. Some Indians were sitting around a campfire. Their chief rose and said, "It was a dark and stormy night. Some Indians were sitting around a campfire. Their chief rose and said,'"It was a dark and stormy night. Some Indians were sitting around a campfire. Their chief rose and said...

 

[Nik_2213]

Like the infamous 'Tower of Hanoi' puzzle, such recursion used to be a cruel test of your computer.
Too many nested calls, brackets, indirections etc gave the feared, "Stack Overflow Error">
Hey, better than that infamous, un-documented 'HCF' op-code which released the 'Magic Smoke'...

FWIW, didn't some-one find a non-recursive algorithm to identify next 'Tower' move, trivialising the task ??

 

[sbrothy]

I don't think I have a scifi writer in me. That would be arrogant. SciFi doesn't really work in Danish (or perhaps I'm just biased), and writing a novel in another language is a more than daunting task. I more or less translated this from Danish. I'd like to read the story it provides the basis for though:

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Prologue:
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She is jogging a new, random, route in the wonderful nature around her home. The normally vaguely pinkish sky has a greenish tinge this morning. She is off her beaten track and suddenly she is jogging through a giant flower patch. The plant's stalks are ligh magenta and the fragrant flowers an explosion of different colors. non-plussed she stops, takes a deep breath through her nose. There's something about this smell. It triggers a memory. This has been happening more and more lately, and it is beginning to become disconcerting, if not downright scary.

This is clearly some of the earlist memories she's ever had. They're very hazy and they figure strange, largely
symmetrical beings with multple arms and eyes. She remembers them with fondness and associates them with food, warmth and safety. She remembers other children. Most of them her own them her own age but some younger. As one of the older ones she remembers being instructed in taking care of the younger ones. She took to the task with gusto and a newly found sense of purpose.

With time the beings slowly kind of evaporated from her memory, but now a smell seemed to have triggered the memory. The smell which triggered the memory was the smell of a flowerfield she just now walked through. Oddly enough, the smell she remembered had this same overwhelmingly sweetness, but it masked - as if with purpose - another, more acrid and unpleasent, odour. For some reason she was now sure that the acrid smell, which she hadn't encountered since, was the real smell of these beings. She was slowly becoming confused. Not scared, just confused. No wait that was a lie. If she wasn't scared, or at least appprehensive, why hadn't she confided in her psychologist yet. The truth was that she was afraid of being seen as crazy. She had long ago wondered if others had similar memories and, like her, was afraid of talking about them.

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About 5000 years later.
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What we met was ourselves, obvious really, in hind-sigt. We were prepared for some kind of technologically advanced aliens and what we met was down-to-earth, ordinary humans. No mistake about it; no mistake possible. They were our genetic equals. And yes, when you think it through it's really diabolically simple and effective. Why risk loosing even hints of their own technology by accident - even the most advanced technology experiences failures and breakdowns. Why show us anything at all? Themselves, their cultural information, language, really, anything? They even planted a myth about old masters coming back to take control, so when we finally came they were more than prepared.

All they had to do was harvest our DNA, or abduct a bunch of humans and establish a colony somewhere between us. Our tech-level is the same, we fight each other with the same weapons. Unfortunately, we also compete for the same biospheres, habitats and they have more planets than us. Sadly, they think they were just lucky finding perfectly terraformed planets.

So, against our will we serve them in an immune system capacity. Gathering intelligence on an enemy that never shows itself turns out to be extremely difficult. We know they're there, pulling the strings; that's pretty much it.
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To get the obvious out of the way right away: yes we go back a long way and obviously that’s why they force me to try to reason with you.
I don’t want to insult your intelligence General. I know this was one of your areas of research, and that you may have considered it a mere academic exercise, but I’m afraid it’s become ceritified reality now.
The medical section of the project, theory, experiment and conclusion - if any - has been declassified. I’m afraid your name comes up a couple of times but in a purely professional manner. I’m sure you’re aware. There’s a reason for this letter.
We know about the cancer Ari. I’m so sorry old friend. This particular evil hits at random, much like traffic accidents. It doesn’t have to be your fault at all. A drunk driver can be about to hit you at 180 km/h; one never knows.
Call you in a cpl of days.

Marten









EDIT:

It's inspired by this one by Bruce Sterling:

Swarm

I'm pretty sure the whole anthology is freely downloadable online, but this is, IMHO, clearly the best one in the collection.

"You lay great stock by your own cleverness. As usual you fail to see that intelligence is not a survival trait." ---- Swarm