Épisodes

  • Return to Flesh

    Return to Flesh
    Jul 31 2022
    “Fuck Frank, and fuck Bruce, and fuck everyone in that old boy’s club,” Julie said, running her hands through her long blonde hair in front of the mirror. Her brown eyes stared back at her from a face that looked older than she felt. She turned on the faucet and held her hands under the cascade of cool water. The trembling was worse than usual today. “You know why that asshole Frank told me Bruce got the promotion instead of me?” “Why?” asked Rachel, turning her head slightly as she ran lipstick over her pursed lips. Her reflection in the mirror locked eyes with Julie. “He said Bruce is a team player.” Rachel rolled her eyes as she dropped the lipstick back in her purse. “What, and you’re not?” “It’s all bullshit,” said Julie. “I think they know about… You know.” She turned off the water and held a trembling hand up, staring at it accusingly. Rachel’s eyes widened. “But how? Who else have you told?” “Just you and my daughter,” said Julie, closing her eyes. She gripped the sides of the sink. “You don’t think she said anything in one of her videos, do you?” “No, it’s not that. I fucked up. I left some lab results out on my desk during lunch one day. I didn’t think anything of it at the time, but ever since then Frank’s been treating me like I have the plague.” “He snooped on your desk?! What a dirt bag! They can’t do this to you, Julie. You should go to HR.” “HR?!” Julie snorted. “They’d have me fired in a hot second if they thought I’d make trouble for the company. Those clowns don’t give a shit about us.” “Well, what are you going to do?” Nothing, Julie thought, but couldn’t bring herself to say it. What else can I ever do? A buzzing in her pocket shook Julie out of her thoughts. The burner–that meant it could only be one person calling, and he only ever called for one reason. Julie decided that was exactly what she needed–the perfect distraction and outlet for her rage. The corners of her lips turned up slightly. God damn, did that prick ever have good timing. “Sorry Rach, I’ve got to take this. Let’s do lunch this week.” Rachel nodded. “Absolutely, babe. Take care, okay?” She frowned and brushed a hand over Julie’s shoulder on her way out of the bathroom. Julie hated that–hated how Rachel had started talking to her like she was already an invalid, staring at her with those sad fucking eyes all the time. Julie pulled the burner out of her pocket and answered it. “Normally I’d be pissed that you called during work, but you’re in luck, asshole. I’m in a mood.” “Hello, is this Julie Holden?” an unfamiliar voice greeted her. Julie frowned. She looked at the phone again to make sure she hadn’t accidentally mistaken her real one for the burner. She hadn’t. She glanced uneasily around the bathroom. “Who is this? How did you get this number?” she hissed into the phone. “Ah,” said the electronically disguised voice–it sounded deep and inhuman. “So this is Julie Holden? Julie Holden, Junior Vice President of Technical Operations at Flagtech Industries?” “Did Rishi put you up to this? Never call this number again, do you understand…” “Julie Holden who would greatly prefer to be Senior Vice President of Technical Operations at Flagtech Industries?” the voice continued. A wave of panic crashed over Julie, and she felt the blood drain from her face. She opened her mouth to respond, but nothing came out. “Julie Holden, Flagtech is considering a recent production order from a client calling themselves the Collective. We understand that the blueprint for the device requires your approval. It is in your best interest to ensure that the full order is accepted and fulfilled as-is.” “Is that some kind of threat?” asked Julie, narrowing her eyes. “Far from it, I assure you,” said the voice. “The Collective is prepared to reward you handsomely for your cooperation in this matter. You see, that blueprint is for a medical device. One capable of treating a certain neurological condition you may have become quite familiar with recently.” Julie’s eyes widened. “Aww, thanks for all the sweet messages. You guys really are the best!” Rose said, looking into her camera. She watched the stream of chat messages flowing up her screen. “I know, I know. I missed you guys, too. I’m sorry I haven’t been on as much. I’ve been dealing with some depressing stuff at home, so I didn’t feel much like streaming, and you guys wouldn’t have wanted to see me like that anyway.” The chat exploded with messages of disagreement. We always want to see you. You should stream more. We love you. You’re so hot. Will you marry me? She forced herself to smile at the effusive blocks of text and emojis as they sailed past. “Okay chat, it’s been fun, but I really need to eat something.” Rose waved at her camera. A notification flashed on her screen–one of her viewers had...
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  • Halloween Horror - Big Tech Edition

    Halloween Horror - Big Tech Edition
    Oct 24 2021
    This week’s podcast features two spooky stories for your listening and/or reading pleasure. Wake Words starts at around 3:40The Walled Garden starts at around 17:05 Wake WordsThe sun hung low over the horizon, its fizzled edges shimmering through the soup of thick brown smog obscuring the tops of distant skyscrapers. Three kids–Mohammed, Jack, and Wendy–stood facing each other, casting long dark pillars of shadow across patches of yellow-brown grass and frowning down at a smoking machine in the dirt. “Augmented reality projector? More like augmented shit projector,” Jack said. He spat, missing Wendy’s foot by an inch. “Eww, gross!” Wendy cried, taking a step back. Mohammed shook his head, still looking down. “But it worked,” he said listlessly. “We had it working.” “Yeah, for three seconds,” said Jack. He scuffed his foot across the dirt toward the broken projector. “Maybe we can try again tomorrow,” said Wendy. She glanced hopefully at Mohammed. Mohammed looked at Wendy, then back down at the machine. “Nah,” he said. “Jack’s right, it’s a piece of shit. I’m sorry I wasted our money, guys.” “Why did you buy this one anyway?” asked Jack. “Kevin’s is a Samsung. Nobody’s ever heard of this brand. You shoulda bought a Samsung.” Mohammed shrugged. “This was the only one I could afford with our allowances. Besides, Amazon recommended it.” “Fuck Amazon,” said Jack. In her pocket, the Alexa app on Wendy’s phone listened. The three friends stood in silence around the metal contraption that had vexed them all afternoon. Oh, what promise the day had held–it had arrived! Their very own augmented reality projector! At last they would know first-hand the delights of AR gaming that, until now, they could only experience vicariously–watching strangers on YouTube, or hearing Kevin brag about his projector at school. But as the afternoon dragged on, the crisp, visceral excitement in the air gradually faded into bitter frustration. The projector was impossibly complex. None of its functions made sense. They pushed buttons, connected it to apps on their phones, swiped screens, screamed crude voice commands at it–all in vain. As the sun dimmed, dipping below the haze and signaling the onset of evening, it seemed all was lost. In what was to be his final attempt, Mohammed hit an untried combination of buttons on one of the projector’s control panels. There was a flash of light, and for a moment the field transformed into a vibrant AR space–a glowing playground filled with strange and exciting holographic toys. Then the machine sparked, fizzled, and the environment evaporated, taking with it the kids’ last glimmer of hope. “Can you return it?” asked Jack. “I want my money back.” “I dunno. Maybe. I guess I’ll take it home and see,” replied Mohammed. “Well I’m gonna give it a shit review,” said Jack. “I’m gonna give it zero stars. Can you give zero stars on Amazon? I wish you could give negative stars.” Wendy’s phone vibrated in her pocket. Mohammed and Jack watched as she took it out and swiped its screen. Wendy shrugged and put the phone back in her pocket. She glanced toward her house, then behind her at the fast-setting sun. “I gotta go, Mom gets mad when I stay out past dark.” A small black dot rose into the air in the distance, accompanied by an almost imperceptible hum. It started moving, cutting through the smog hanging over the city center as it approached. None of the kids noticed. Mohammed knelt and delicately prodded his finger at the projector, bracing for electric shocks or hot surfaces. Finding it safe, he gathered it up in his arms. Jack watched with a look of disgust. Wendy looked over her shoulder at her two friends as she walked toward her house. “See you guys at school tomorrow.” Mohammed waved to her, then headed to the path where he had stashed his bicycle and backpack. Jack stood and watched them leave, grumbling to himself. “Fuck that projector. And fuck Amazon for selling trash.” The hum was louder now, tickling the edges of Jack’s perception. He turned and looked out toward the city, not entirely sure why. His phone vibrated in his pocket. Jack pulled it out and saw a message from Wendy: See you at school tomorrow, it said. He looked back over his shoulder. Wendy had reached her yard, not so much as glancing up as she closed the tall wooden gate behind her. “You said that already, weirdo,” Jack muttered. He slipped his phone into his pocket and returned his attention to the city. The smog hanging over the tall buildings had turned from brown to dark gray in the dwindling twilight. Jack began his downhill trek, marching away from Wendy’s house and the neighborhood that Mohammed lived in and toward the street that led to his own. He narrowed his eyes and scanned the darkening sky. The hum was louder now. He thought he saw movement–a dark shadow gliding toward him through the...
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  • Three Million CE - Episode 7

    Three Million CE - Episode 7
    Aug 29 2021
    Three million years was a long time. An awful long time. It was so long that Doyle Tingler believed his brain fully incapable of processing the implications of its length, and so did his best to spare the poor thing that unpleasantness. Doyle vacillated his thoughts between two subjects. The first was his quest to find his girlfriend Kirsten, who ran off to join the Nikola’s Children cult shortly after Doyle had proposed to her. Three million years crammed in a stasis chamber with Sarah the security officer–his friend’s would-be-kidnapper–had not dulled his desire to complete that quest, though thinking about how he might go about it now, given his current predicament, tended to darken his mood considerably. The other subject towards which Doyle more frequently steered his thoughts was, much to the chagrin of those around him, thinking of and listing all the films, television shows, and books he knew of that resembled his present situation in some way. “Red Dwarf,” said Doyle, staring absentmindedly at the ceiling. Sarah put her face in her hands and sighed dramatically. “You’ve said that one.” “Have I?” Sarah nodded emphatically. She put down the small black book she had been writing in before Doyle had interrupted her, and launched into a nasally voiced imitation. “Dave Lister, after being put in stasis for smuggling a cat aboard the deep space mining ship Red Dwarf, finds himself resurrected in deep space three million years later and…” “It’s odd, isn’t it?” interrupted Doyle, ignoring Sarah’s mockery. “I mean that it was also three million years.” “Whatever,” Sarah said, rolling her eyes. “Except in that show Lister was the last human alive, so it’s not exactly like this, since there’s two of us. We do have an android, though,” Doyle added, thinking of Desmond, the artificial intelligence that had piloted the Nikola’s Children ship–the Ark–for three million years before crashing it into a planet and copying himself into the robot body they found abandoned there. Doyle shook his head. “But no holograms. What about Farscape? Have I mentioned Farscape yet?” “You mean the show where John Crichton finds himself flung to a distant corner of the galaxy where he has to navigate the socio-political fabric of several unfamiliar alien races as he searches for a way home?” asked Sarah. “Yes,” said Doyle. “Never heard of it,” said Sarah. She returned her attention to her book. “That doesn’t fit, either,” said Doyle. “It didn’t take place in the future. Also in Farscape there were aliens, but I think everyone we’ve met so far is essentially human, give or take a few million years of evolution. Zuli says it’s a widely held belief that all known life originated from a common source. I suppose that would be Earth, though I gather that’s a religiously contentious opinion nowadays. “No, Farscape is close, but I feel like I’m forgetting something even better…” Sarah snapped her book shut and stood up. “Well, be sure not to bother me with it when you’ve figured it out.” She pushed past Doyle toward the hallway that led to her quarters. Bae, the tiny rhino-pig that had been napping at Sarah’s feet, woke up and stretched lazily, then trotted after her. “Oh, I know! Planet of the Apes. Not the new ones, but the old Charlton Heston one. Or the Tim Burton remake. Except those were all on Earth,” Doyle mused, following Sarah and Bae into the hall. “Leave me alone,” said Sarah, quickening her pace. “Maybe the Culture books by Iain M. Banks. Or Dune. Didn’t that desert planet with the sand worm remind you of Dune?” “I’m not listening,” said Sarah. “Oh! Did I tell you about Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy yet?” Sarah screamed. Zuli leaned back in the captain’s chair and frowned at the patterns that danced across the large curved screen in front of her. She had agreed to help Doyle find Takkah IV, where he believed the Ark had been taken, but to do that they would have to find someone who knew more about the Orubus Belt–an area of space not widely renowned for its abundance of friendly encounters. “I’ve zoomed the sensors out,” Desmond said. “You see those jiggly patterns in the upper left? It’s radiation that the ship’s computer calls non-random chatter. And it’s at a volume that indicates a totally massive communications hub of some kind. Like a station or an inhabited star system. Might be a good direction to head, see if we can get close enough to decode some of it and listen in.” “Very well,” Zuli said, glancing over at the large robot. A snaking tendril of cable connected Desmond’s arm to a console against the wall of the bridge. “I am grateful to you, Desmond. Your interface to the ship and your instruction in its operation has been invaluable. It is just too bad the ship computers did not contain more information about the Orubus Belt.” “Nobody ever mapped ...
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  • The Onus Construct - Part I

    The Onus Construct - Part I
    Jul 18 2021
    It all started on a dreary Friday afternoon. It had been over a month since my last case, and twice as long since I’d heard from Magnus. They say idle hands are the devil’s workshop; if that’s true, my devil was either on vacation or one lazy son of a bitch. I must have looked a sorry sight–a lone, courageous dribble of saliva fought its way through five days worth of stubble on its way down my chin as I leaned back in my chair, feet up on the desk, with a fat stogie in one hand and a bottle of Johnnie Walker in the other. The rain crashed in hypnotic waves against the rickety window at my back. I’d been drifting in and out of sleep all afternoon–dreaming that I was on the deck of some ancient wooden barge, swaying back and forth on its creaky deck, staring out at an endless dark ocean. The clock on the wall was broken, but the dimness of the sun fighting its way through the rain clouds told me it was about time to quit drinking at the office and pick it back up at my apartment. I deposited my long-since expired cigar into my ash tray and placed the bottle of scotch next to it. The scattered envelopes, unpaid bills, and old case files that littered my desk were marred by stains. Magnus used to joke that my desk aged like a tree–you could tell how long it’d been since our last case by counting the overlapping rings of spilt booze and coffee. I glanced sidelong at his abandoned desk next to mine, glistening and pristine as always. The only thing on it was the plastic tray at its corner where he kept active case files–it was empty except for the handful of envelopes that had arrived for him in the weeks since his disappearance. I’d wrestled with the idea of opening them, curious if any bore some clue to his whereabouts, but thought better of it. His last words to me, spoken in hushed tones over the phone, were that he needed to lay low for a while and I should make no attempt to find or contact him. I had reluctantly agreed, and though I may not be much else, I am at least a man of my word. As I stood, bracing myself against the desk while grasping at booze-hazy memories of how my legs worked, I heard the front door in the lobby burst open. The wild hissing sound of the rainstorm flooded my office for a moment before the door slammed shut, drowning it out again. I collapsed back in my chair, leaning forward with my eyes fixed on the frosted glass window that looked out on the hallway from the lobby. Magnus always boasted that he could predict everything he needed to know about a case from the client’s silhouette as they passed by that window. He made a game of it–whispering his prognosis for each new client as they walked past. “Bad luck,” he’d say; “Memory loss;” Or, one of his favorites, “unwanted impure thoughts.” He was wrong more often than right, but every now and then he’d get lucky–the client would finish explaining and Magnus would catch my eye and give a self-satisfied nod. It usually irritated me, but now that he was gone it surprised me how much I missed that little ritual. In Magnus’s absence I was left to formulate my own preconceptions about this new potential client. From the shape of the silhouette and the sound of the heeled footsteps clicking across the hallway, the best I could come up with was “probably female.” As to the nature of her visit, I didn’t venture a guess. Nothing I could have imagined, naive as I was at the time, could have landed even remotely near the mark. The silhouette rounded the corner, confirming my initial impressions. The woman stood tall in the office doorway, wearing a dark blue trench coat with the collar pulled up and a matching wide-brimmed hat. Remnants of the storm dripped steadily onto the hardwood floor at her feet. The woman’s face was pale and gaunt, looking almost skeletal in the dim light. She glanced around the room and spotted the coat rack in the corner, then walked to it and hung her hat, revealing her shoulder-length black hair. After she hung her coat, I could tell her body was as lean as her face. The white buttoned shirt and blue jeans she wore should have been form-fitting on a woman as tall as she was, but on her they hung loose, like a deflated parachute. She turned toward me, continuing to look around the room as she approached. The woman paused when she saw the bottle on my desk. She looked at me with an expression of distaste. “Are you Magnus Vitale?” she asked. I shook my head. “Magnus is… indisposed, presently. I’m his partner, Sylvester Bullet.” I gestured toward one of the uncomfortable wooden chairs pushed up against my desk. “How can I help you, Mrs…” The woman remained silent for a moment. She looked down at the battered chair I had offered, then back at me. She let out a resigned sigh as she pulled the chair out and sat down delicately, placing a small black purse on her lap. “Miss Tanaka,” the woman said. “Chinami Tanaka. I need help tracking someone ...
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  • Three Million CE - Episode 6

    Three Million CE - Episode 6
    Apr 25 2021
    The station’s docking bay doors soundlessly swung open on Dak’s viewscreen, like the gaping maw of a hungry rust-covered space creature. Dak hated mining colonies–they stirred up too many unwanted memories. Under normal circumstances Dak wouldn’t have so much as farted in the colony’s direction as he blinked past, but for some reason they had gone out of their way to hail him. It wasn’t normal. Mining colonies in the Orubus Belt were xenophobic to the point of madness. The one Dak had grown up in would have preferred mass suicide to dealing with outsiders. That this colony was hailing passing strangers meant they must be in trouble. Real trouble. The kind of trouble that paid well. “Initiating automatic docking procedure.” The ship’s voice reminded Dak of his sister, to the extent that he had started calling it by her name. He didn’t believe in reincarnation, but the fantasy that Aylix somehow lived on in the ship’s computer brought him comfort. “What do your scans show, Aylix?” Dak asked out loud. “There are three thousand seven hundred and three humanoid lifeforms on board,” replied Aylix. “Two are present in the docking bay. Neither armed with conventional weapons.” Dak nodded. The station grew larger on the viewscreen at a steady pace. “I recommend caution,” Aylix added. “It could be a trap.” Dak changed into his carbon fiber bodysuit while Aylix finished docking. He pulled the hood up and slid its visor down over his eyes, and clipped his weapon harness across his chest. Two men in grime-covered overalls were waiting for him in the docking bay. “Best watch yourself here, stranger,” said one of the men. “We appreciate you answering the hail and all, but know that we got our eye on you.” “Appreciate the warm welcome,” said Dak. “Your message mentioned a reward.” The miner who had spoken–a toothpick compared to his silent companion–nodded, then looked Dak up and down. Unimpressed, he turned his attention to Aylix. “Never seen a ship like yours before,” said the miner. “She got any firepower to her?” “When she needs to,” said Dak. “Will she need to?” “I reckon she will,” said the miner. “Come. The Foreman will give you the details. Give my friend here your weapons while on board.” The taller, heavier, less talkative miner stepped forward and held out a hand that was larger than Dak’s head. Dak glared at him. “No weapons, no job,” said the smaller miner. “No job, no reward. Your choice.” Dak sighed. The interior of the station was hewn from rusty metal pipes. The walls, ceiling, and even the floor beneath the grated walkways were one big snaking maze. Dripping stalactites glistened in the station’s dim lighting. The air smelled of smoke and dampness. The two miners led Dak up a set of rattling stairs to a catwalk overlooking the refinery–a cavernous reservoir of smoking machinery and crisscrossing walkways and conveyor belts. The indistinct silhouettes of miners lining the walkways were visible through the haze. There was a door at the end of the catwalk; the two miners ushered Dak through. In the room, sitting behind a desk, was the most obese man Dak had ever seen. Presumably the Foreman. Dak recognized the symbol tattooed across his face at once–the mark of a Takkah agent. An unexpected sight; either Dak was further from the outer rim than he thought, or the Takkah Empire had expanded its control over mining operations in the Orubus Belt considerably. The miners waited outside the office. They didn’t bother introducing Dak. “I take it you’re interested in the reward,” the Foreman said. “What should I call you?” “Syphon,” said Dak. “Dak Syphon.” The Foreman leaned forward in his chair. “We can’t offer currency, Mr. Syphon. But you’ll get a full tank of fuel and a crate of this if you can help us.” The Foreman slid a half-empty bottle across his desk toward Dak. Dak picked it up and sniffed at it. Mining colony moonshine was the stuff of legends–near impossible for outsiders to get a hold of. Dak put the bottle back down on the desk. “What’s the job?” “There’s a large debris field on the other side of our planetoid, orbiting in opposition to the station,” said the Foreman. “Hidden in the debris is an old but functioning freighter ship.” “You want me to retrieve it?” asked Dak. “Hardly,” said the Foreman. “I want you to destroy it, and ideally the damn necromancer who lives there too.” Dak blinked. “The… necromancer?” “Yeah. The necromancer. A magister of the dark arts,” continued the Foreman. “He’s been a thorn in my side and a blight on this station for a hundred kilocycles, ever since we banished him from the colony. But now he’s taken it too far.” Dak crossed his arms. Was the Foreman pulling his leg, or just stupid? Necromancers were the things of old spacefarer’s tales. “He’s been sabotaging the station, making us ...
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  • Three Million CE - Episode 5

    Three Million CE - Episode 5
    Mar 1 2021
    There was no doubt about it–the old man’s coordinates were in the Orubus Belt. The Belt was a lawless zone, claimed by none of the prefectures. Whispers of missing ships and entire crews gone mad kept all but the most foolhardy of adventurers far from its borders. All trade routes between neighboring systems circumnavigated it, leaving the Belt almost entirely uncharted. Zuli was a more than a little apprehensive, but she had promised to deliver the old man to his coordinates. And Zuli was not one to break her promises. Zuli made the sign of the Prophets across her face and muttered a short prayer. She pressed the comm button next to the navigational display on her console. “Are you certain of these coordinates?” Zuli said. “They are taking us into…” “Yes, I’m sure!” the old man’s voice came crackling over the comm system. “I know where it’s taking us. You promised! You can’t back out now!” Zuli frowned. She had no intention of breaking her promise. “No worries,” Zuli said. “The Prophets shall watch over us, even in the Orubus Belt.” “Yeah, yeah,” the old man’s voice blurted. “Just let me know when we approach the coordinates. I’ll have preparations to make.” Zuli scowled and released her finger from the comm button. She made the sign of the Prophets once more and asked for a blessing of patience. Zuli had taken pity on the old man at the New Antilles spaceport. She noticed him at the docks, dragging his large cargo container behind him and begging every passing merchant and trader for passage aboard their ship. Those who didn’t ignore him outright were quick to dismiss him once they learned of his destination. Now Zuli understood why. Zuli flicked her finger across the navigational chart on her console and flung it to the bridge’s main display. A spider web of specks and lines appeared near the bottom of the large glass screen, illuminating Zuli’s face with their dull green glow. The top half of the screen remained ominously blank. The blank space gradually expanded downward, pushing the web of charted systems and trade routes off the bottom edge of the display. Soon they would cross the border into the Orubus Belt. A red dot started flashing inside the empty map of the Orubus Belt. Zuli blinked and stared at the spot. The hairs on the back of her neck tingled, the way they always did when the Prophets were about to test her. Pulsing concentric circles expanded around the dot and faded away, like ripples in a red pond. A distress signal! Based on its proximity to their destination, intercepting the distress signal would require a slight deviation from their current heading. She tapped the alteration into her control panel, and felt an almost imperceptible shudder from the ship as it adjusted course. “What are you doing? Why have you changed course?” the old man’s voice boomed over the comm. “You promised!” Zuli sighed. “No worries, friend,” she replied. “I have detected a distress signal not far from your coordinates. I must investigate and help if I can. It is on the way.” “No!” cried the old man. “You promised to take me!” “I did promise,” said Zuli. “And I will take you. If you are unhappy with the path the Prophets have chosen for me then you are free to disembark and seek another ship whose captain is more willing to…” “Gah!” the old man cut Zuli off with a frustrated grunt. “Do what you must, but remember your promise.” Zuli sighed. The ship’s sensors indicated that the old man was still in the cargo hold. “It will be several cycles yet before we reach the distress signal or your destination,” she said into the comm. “Perhaps you would be more comfortable in one of the crew quarters, or here on the bridge with me.” “I’m fine where I am,” said the old man. The old man’s answer didn’t come as a surprise. He hadn’t left his cargo container alone for a nanocycle since boarding the ship. It was, perhaps, for the best; Zuli didn’t think he’d be very good company on the bridge. Something about the old man’s demeanor and the way he coddled that cargo container unsettled Zuli in a way she had never experienced before. Zuli released the comm button and returned her attention to the main display. The red pulsating dot–still alone in the wide empty space of the Orubus Belt–captivated her. She had heard dozens of tales of the Orubus Belt, and dismissed them as absurd. But now, as they approached its border, the seeds of doubt crept into her mind. The tales often told of dark, incomprehensible cosmic forces dwelling deep within the Belt. Zuli closed her eyes, recalling the horrific tales, and wondering what the Prophets had in store for her. Desmond sat under the desert planet’s perpetual night sky at the edge of what used to be a giant sand-worm pit. The nightly howling windstorms had filled it up, burying the sand-worm’s remains and turning the pit into more of a slight ...
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  • Three Million CE - Episode 4

    Three Million CE - Episode 4
    Dec 31 2020
    A hook formed out of thin wire carved a narrow trench through the sand as Doyle steadily dragged it toward him. In his right hand he held a chunk of metal shaped like a cricket bat, which he had christened Grub Smasher. He had salvaged both the wire and Grub Smasher from the debris that had dropped from the Ark. The sound of shifting sand came from the loose end of the wire. Doyle’s muscles tensed. “Come on you little bastard,” whispered Doyle. A small hole appeared in the ground next to the wire, and a pale finger-sized worm poked out. The squirming creature snatched the loose end of wire with dozens of hair-like tentacles surrounding its mouth. Before it could drag its prize underground, Doyle swung Grub Smasher down. A cloud of dust puffed up around the impact. Doyle turned the weapon over and observed a wet purple smear at its center–confirmation of his kill. He put Grub Smasher down and yanked the dead worm’s body out of its hole. Purple slime dripped from its smashed head onto the sand. Doyle tossed the carcass behind him and it landed with a splat on top of the others. Doyle sneered at the pile of dead worms. That last one made two dozen. They looked like a pile of rancid uncooked hot dogs sitting in a puddle of their own liquefied remains. If only they tasted as good, thought Doyle. He shuddered. Doyle and Sarah had been ecstatic when they first discovered the creatures. After nearly two days without food or water, the worms had saved them. They spent hours luring them, yanking them out of the ground, then consuming them–two bites, then on to the next–purple goo smeared across their cheeks and dripping from their chins. Fuller bellies and clearer heads ushered in the realization that the worms left much to be desired in the way of flavor. They paced themselves to limit their disgust–one meal a day, forcing down as many of the creatures as they could without vomiting. “How many is that, my dude?” Doyle looked over at the pile of cables and computer components that had spoken. The Ark’s stasis chamber was too heavy to drag around, so Desmond had walked Doyle through the process of extracting his computer core and a few key peripherals. It involved Grub Smasher and a lot of swearing, but the end result was a tangled but much more portable version of Desmond. “About two dozen,” said Doyle. “Should be more than enough. Yesterday Sarah could only choke three of them down. Don’t think I did much better.” “Shit, bro,” said Desmond. “I wish I could do more to help you guys find different food. I feel totally useless like this.” Sighing, Doyle glanced over at the derelict spaceship that he, Sarah, and Desmond had been calling home for the past two weeks. The ship had been half-buried in sand, but not in a way that implied it had crashed–rather abandoned and forgotten for so long that the wind was gradually tucking it in. Doyle had spotted it while they were searching the perimeter of the city ruins for anything that might help them survive. The ship was exceptionally large–it consisted of a spacious rear cabin connected by on over-sized doorway to a cockpit with similarly over-sized controls and chairs. The chairs made comfortable beds and, despite having its rear door stuck open, the cabin did an acceptable job of shielding its three stranded inhabitants from the elements. And best of all, it had power. Somewhere deep in the ship’s guts was a backup power source. A power source that had sat dormant for ages, automatically activated by the arrival of a couple humans and an AI stranded three million years into their own future. The cabin had working lights, a comically large but fully functional stove top, a toilet the size of a small car, a sink, and–Sarah’s favorite–an enormous bathtub that filled with hot water at the press of a button. After having spent over a week sleeping on the barren dirt ground in the open, discovering the ship had felt like booking into the Ritz Carlton. Despite it’s odd proportions, Desmond had claimed the ship’s technology was “human-esque,” whatever that meant. He even managed to communicate with its systems over a radio-based protocol similar to Bluetooth. “You’re not useless, Des,” said Doyle. “In fact if you can figure out a way to send a distress signal from that ship, you might be our only hope.” Doyle stood up, facing away from Desmond as he unzipped his fly to pee. “Not yet,” said Desmond. “And you should probably do that on the ship.” “What?” asked Doyle. “The ship’s water supply isn’t what it was when we first found it,” said Desmond. “When you urinate outside there’s no way to reclaim it.” “No way to… Wait, what?” “All waste water in the ship is purified and re-circulated,” said Desmond. “I mean, where did you think all the water was coming from?” “So, you mean we’ve been drinking our own…?” “Yeah. Well, not just yours. Obviously the ship’s ...
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  • The Hint Line

    The Hint Line
    Nov 30 2020
    The phone rang at around three in the afternoon. I stared at it for a long time–the beige rotary antiquity sitting far back on my desk next to a scrambled Rubik’s cube and a book of chess puzzles. I had almost forgotten the thing even existed, despite the fact that it had directed the flow of my entire life for the last three decades. Its ring was loud and tactile–like those old alarm clocks with a hammer that physically pounds back and forth against two bells. The sound gave me goosebumps. I guess for you to understand why something as innocuous as a ringing phone could cause me such trepidation, I had better start from the beginning. When I was in high school, I was a gaming fanatic who was blessed with wealthy parents and a generous allowance. I owned every home console available in North America, as well as a couple that weren’t, and every penny that didn’t go towards expanding my game collection got converted to quarters at the arcade on a regular basis. An obsession with video games was certainly not an uncommon condition among boys my age–I merely took it to a level that few others could even dream of. I started my freshman year at university in ‘92. My parents kept paying me the same allowance and covered the tuition, but everything else was up to me. It became apparent early on that maintaining my former gaming budget while also paying for the dorm, food, and other living expenses was, to put it mildly, financially untenable. For the first time in my life, the horrifying prospect of needing additional income had dawned on me. Wandering around campus during the day was something I tended to avoid–too many people were out and about; it made me anxious. As such, it wasn’t until well after dark one Friday night that I hit the campus job boards in the hopes of finding something that could ease the burden on my wallet while minimizing the burden on me. I was not an ambitious kid–I wanted to earn just enough cash to keep a roof over my head and feed my stomach and gaming addiction while doing as little work as possible in the process. My prospects were grim. The postings on the board were all volunteer positions or part-time retail gigs. The retail jobs would have paid enough, and bagging groceries probably wouldn’t have been too mentally taxing, but the thought of wearing a fake smile and dealing face-to-face with an unending stream of people every day made me dry heave. There was one posting for a data entry job, but all the dangling tabs with the phone number to call had already been torn off. Data entry sounded like it could be up my alley, so I decided to visit the smaller job board outside the computer lab in the hopes of finding more. To my dismay, the cork board hanging in the dimly-lit hall outside the computer lab displayed a smaller selection of the same jobs I had already seen. I was about to head back to the dorms to lament over my poor luck, when something white jutting out from behind the board caught my eye–the slightest hint of a sheet of paper someone had slipped between the wall and the cork board. My first ham-fisted attempts at fishing it out with my fingernail failed miserably. I pulled out my student ID card and pressed the edge of it against the sliver of paper, then dragged it along the wall. The sheet of paper slid right into my hand. Grinning at my cleverness, I looked the paper over. There were two lines typed out in all caps at its center: DO YOU LIKE VIDEO GAMES?CALL FOR MORE INFO There was a phone number printed at the bottom of the sheet. My heart rate amped up a notch. Could this be the Holy Grail that it appeared to be? I would have given my left arm for a paying job that involved video games, and that seemed to be what I had stumbled upon. I felt absurdly protective of that little piece of paper. In my mind it was a divine treasure, hidden there for me to find. I glanced down the hallway in both directions. There was a couple down at one end who were plainly too interested in each other to pay me any notice, and I thought I saw a man standing in the shadows at the other end of the hall–but when I blinked and squinted to get a better look there was nothing there. Probably my sudden paranoia playing tricks on me. I looked back at the job posting in my hands, folded it into my pocket, then practically sprinted all the way back to the dorms. Expecting it to go to a machine so late at night, my fear over even the slightest possibility that I may miss out if I waited too long drove me to call the number that night. To my surprise, a woman answered. “Hello?” said the woman. She sounded alert, not like someone who had been awaken by a phone call in the middle of the night. That was promising. “Hi, I hope it’s not too late. I’m calling about the, uh, video game job?” I said. There was a pregnant pause, and for a moment I feared that I had lost the connection, or the woman had hung up. Maybe the message I had found was a joke, and I had ...
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