Bryan Beal
It all seemed like a great idea when I was young. You know the story. Our whole futures were laid out in an endless stream of adventure and why wouldn't we? Back then, it was the dawn of a new era and we were the bleeding edge of human evolution. Or so we thought.
Graham Hadrian looked into the mirror early on Sunday morning, grimacing at the haggard, drawn face that peered back at him. Sickly, dysentery green stains blotched his skin and eyes like a leprous growth seeping its diseased tentacles through his body. Another Sunday and another service that he would have to push himself through. He wondered at the hypocrisy that used to weigh heavily on his heart. It no longer caused him a loss of sleep or pricks of the conscience. If the suckers wanted to believe this crap, then that was on them. He was merely pushing the lies that had long since ceased plaguing him with their malicious guilt and fear.
It was always serene. An air-conditioned room in the quiet distance meant Damien Zhao could focus on the task. He could guide the eyes of the world wherever he wanted. He was surprised he did not get drunker on that power, until he remembered Casey was the one who called the shots. Friggin' director.
The drone drifted closer to the street below. Waves of people surged along the street. The dark blue line sank backwards, a retreat from the much larger tsunami ramming them towards the vehicles that had brought them. Streamers of smoke streaked through the space between the drone and the people, now distinguishable from each other. Gas erupted from canisters like puffs of pollen. The large hoard of people hesitated under the onslaught of teargas.
Lost. That was how Kumiko felt. Something she had thought would last forever was ripped away from her like a scab off a wound. The old feelings came back in a deluge of loathing, a maelstrom of clashing emotions that surged within like a tsunami of terror.
The old comments, the snide looks and the condescending pity would return. Others would see her as just that single loser-dog. The tears were there. Just below the surface. Even though she was alone, Kumiko would not allow them free flow. She refused to give the bastard even that unseen satisfaction.
The days had worn into weeks which had stretched and seethed into unending months. From the day the first Overlords had arrived, death reigned supreme on Othus Prime IX.
The Overlords brought with them their magic and their fury. Inhuman machines gifted human souls reaped their blood-soaked vengeance on a planet that had committed no sin against them.
Cassandra's cold, blue eyes stared across the room at her friends talking at the bar. They were shrouded in a cloud of blue tobacco smoke from the pipes they were all enjoying immensely. At a time when such vices were frowned upon, to say the least, smoking reviled substances of any sort was almost a capital offence socially. Cassandra loved it.
She languidly lifted herself from the booth where she had been chatting to one of her oldest colleagues and joined her clique. She found a plain, ceramic pipe proffered by Ivan Kalinsky. The dark haired and brooding Kalinsky had been a failing writer in the 1950's when Cassie had turned him. Two and a half centuries later, nothing had changed for the man.
The hit had been perfect. The Grand Vizier of Ethquafar, a middling little planet on the edge of Unionist space, had dropped like a sack of Parthmen excrement. The exploding head spraying bits of purple brain and orange blood all over the Vizier's pampered family was a bonus. The Media Ports had been flooded with graphic replays for hours. As far as Huxhert was concerned, this had been a complete publicity overrun for the Revolutionary Brigade of Oorth.
Huxhert herself had chosen the antique munitions that had done the job. A single 13mm round did not come cheap. But the hollow-point slug, long banned by any civilised world, had made its point (no pun intended). Now that she was being grilled by the single most useless individual in the entire RBO, her patience was wearing thin.
WARNING: This story depicts graphic violence.
Tallex had always wondered about it. Since she had arrived on this pin-prick of a rock in the middle of nowhere, the question had eaten at her mind. As she had watched and scouted, waiting, the human persistence that aliens would bring enlightenment and a new evolution amused her. Tallex allowed herself a quiet giggle, muffled by her mask, as she prepared.
The Dark Sun heralded a new week. New oppression. Farquar, named after some obscure princeling from more than three thousand years before, awoke on a Frigursdaeg morning with a sense of sadness at the routines that had overtaken its life. Farquar looked in the cracked remains of the holoscreen at its dirtied face. It really should shave, but then who could be bothered? It was not as if it had a reason to look its best. It splashed some water over its face and that was about it. Once dressed, the outside world called.
High above, what was left of the sun's glory peeked through the dense clouds. Farquar had read once that people actually wore special creams to protect themselves from something called sunburn. It believed none of it. Like a lot of things from “history”, you had to be careful what crap you swallowed. And today, Farquar was in no mood for crap.
There had been anomalies for over a hundred years. Deacon was no less puzzled now than he was when they first appeared on the radio telescopes. A month ago, he called Jackson Mybark at SETI, that aged institution, to pitch an idea. Seated in his office, Deacon sweated rivers despite the aircon.
“Jackson, dude, this could be the very thing you lot have been looking for since, what? Four centuries ago?”, Deacon said in his southern drawl. “How much have you found in that time, exactly?”