Short Story Competition 9 (Twilight Zone) - Vote HERE!

After landing on a planet, a spaceship crew finds an identical wrecked ship with their dead doppelgängers onboard.

Emile suggested that we leave. As he was the only person left with a working weapon we took his suggestion to heart. I packed the remains of my rations and pilfered an extra water bottle while Baker twitched near the open hatch.

"Where are we supposed to go?" he asked.

Emile was perched cross legged on a crate. He tapped the barrel of his gun lightly against the edge of it and shrugged.

"There's nothing out there," said Baker, his voice tight.

I shifted my pack onto my shoulders and joined them.

"Now gentlemen," said Emile. "I think we'll all agree that I've been very fair with the rations."

Baker made a noise.

"No," said Emile. "I could have sent you out there with nothing at all. I've given you a fighting chance."

"There's nothing out there," repeated Baker. "Once these rations are gone we'll starve."

"Oh don't be so dramatic," said Emile. "There's a whole planet out there, you never know what food you could find."

I looked out through the hatch at the seemingly never ending expanse of dry red rocks and turned back to Emile, who smiled.

I followed Baker outside and landed with a thud on the parched ground. I turned to see Emile reach out, grab the hatch and swing it closed. The ship was still perched at an awkward angle. The port engine crushed beyond repair. I waited a second, hoping that the slamming of the hatch would somehow tip the ship the rest of the way over. That would serve him right. But it didn't so I turned back to Baker, who was kicking up red dust as he shuffled around. He lapsed into a heavy silence as we began to walk, but my mind couldn't keep still.

"F*cking Emile," I said. "This is exactly the type of thing he'd do."

"What?"

"I knew it from the second I met him, with that...handshake of his."

"You couldn't have known he'd do this," he said. "I mean how could anyone predict this?"

I hmmed and we continued on in silence. It was a lot rockier south. Before we'd crashed the ground had been almost completely smooth. We'd been able to fly low and allow the outside equipment to gather the samples. It was such a time saver. When you consider how long it takes to land safely and get all of our hand held equipment ready. Everyone had agreed, they all said it sounded like a good plan. And I wasn't the only one who failed to notice the rocks. They couldn't lay the blame solely on my shoulders. No sir.

We had spent a long time onboard the hot ship arguing over whether our nearest landmark was a small mountain range or a very large outcrop of rocks. The argument eventually came to a head after 3 days with me clutching a bloody nose and Emile folding his arms smugly. But Emile wasn't here now.

"It shouldn't take more than a few hours to reach the Small Mountains," I said, giving each word the weight it deserved.

Baker spent the hours flitting between quiet brooding and excited optimism. After the first hour he had us dead of thirst. After the second hour he had decided we were going to make some incredible discovery beyond the mountains. Half way through hour three he was jabbering on excitedly while worrying some beef jerky with his teeth.

"This will show him," he said, jabbing a thumb back over his shoulder. "He's holed up there in the ship while we're out here making history. Who knows what we're going to find, maybe water, maybe food. He might starve before we do."

By the time he had us on the cover of Time magazine we had reached the foot of the mountains.

"They're not that big close up," he said, wiping his brow.

"They're big enough," I said. "They're mountains, we're not going to get into that again."

By the time we reached the top he'd half convinced me we'd see a green valley with a stream. So when I clambered over the top I was almost prepared to see anything. But not quite prepared to see what I did. Behind me I could hear Baker's fingers clasping at the edge.

"What do you see?" he asked.

"Em," I said.

We stood on the summit and looked down into the cracked red valley below us. Baker turned to look back the way we had come, then down to what sat on the floor of the valley.

Our ship. Shiny and new. Standing on its landing feet, not listed at that terrible angle we'd grown accustomed to.

"F*cking Emile," I said.

"What?"

"This has his name written all over it."

What followed was a spirited discussion about what to do next. I was keen to march straight down, knock on the hatch, and challenge Emile to a gentleman's fight. That would sort things out once and for all.

"That's not our ship," said Baker. "It couldn't possibly be our ship. So Emile's not in there. He's back there doing God knows what."

"I'm going down."

He grabbed my arm.

"Ours is back there, we can still see it. Someone else got here first and crashed. These rocks are dangerous, they creep up on you if you're not paying attention..."

"I was paying attention," I said. "They crept up on us because they're the same colour as everything else on this planet, red."

"I'm not blaming you," he said.

But I knew he did, I knew he took Emile's side

"It has our flag on the hatch," I said. "And we're the first manned mission to this hell hole."

I yanked my arm away and skittered and skidded down the side of the mountain. When I reached the bottom Baker had started to make his way down after me. He clunked up behind me as I ran my fingers over the name stencilled into the side of the ship. Shaking his head he drew up beside me.

"Something strange is going on here," he said.

I laughed.

We each set off in a different direction and circled the craft, kicking the legs, checking the engines. By the time we reached each other we were both in agreement. The ship seemed to have no visible damage. I almost didn't care what it was or where it had come from. It could be our ticket home. We stood looking up at the hatch, which stood ajar, and did a quick rock, paper, scissors to see who'd go first. He gave me a boost and I grabbed the lip of the doorway. The lights were off so I squinted, but I couldn't make out anything more than shadows. I waited, listening for the sound of movement, but there was only silence. I dragged myself through and reached back to help Baker inside. We made such a clanging that anyone onboard couldn't fail to hear us. But still there was nothing.

I dug the torch out of my pack and swung the beam through the hold. All of our equipment was strapped into place, our sample crates were stacked against the wall. I pointed the light at Baker who was clenching his jaw so tightly it looked like it was going to snap. He nodded at the ladder running up the opposite wall.

When I emerged, noisily into the cockpit they didn't move a muscle. I could see the backs of their heads as they sat in the seats, staring straight through the front windows. Baker pulled up beside me.

"Hello?" he called.

Still no movement. I tapped the torch against the nearby wall but the metallic echo didn't seem to register with them either. We approached slowly. Baker moved towards the rightmost of the three seats, so I pulled off to the left. He reached them first and instinctively raised a hand towards his mouth.

They had been dead a long time. There was still flesh on their bones, but it was hard, and dry like leather.

"What is going on?" asked Baker, the panic rising in his voice again.

"I dunno," I said, "but this one's wearing your clothes."

I pointed at the 'Baker' patch on the body nearest me.

"Oh my God," said Baker, clasping both hands to his head. "Are they us?"

I glanced at the other two bodies, the middle one had a gun tucked into his belt.

"Look," I said. "Typical f*cking Emile, putting himself in the middle seat. I'm the pilot, I sit in the middle."

Baker looked at me in confusion and started to rock slightly.

"This can't be what it looks like," he said.

I looked around and jabbed a few buttons, but all the lights and screens stayed blank. Baker started to poke and prod at the body nearest him.

"How did they die?" he asked, as he ran his fingers down the back of the head and neck. I felt a shiver go through me as I realised that if Baker's body was near me, and Emile was in the middle then that was my dead body he was man handling.

"If they're us," I said. "Then they're our future selves?"

"Time travel is impossible," said Baker.

I spread my hands out across the three dead bodies.

"No," he said. "This is something else. An experiment or something, a psychological experiment."

He began to pace up and down.

"Don't you think this is all a bit too convenient?" he asked. "I mean the crash just happens to kill our communications and destroy our engines. There are too many fail safes and contingencies in place for that to happen. This has to be a set up."

"A set up by who?" I asked as I flipped switches to no avail.

"By the agency. They always seemed far more interested in how we'd cope psychologically than physically. Maybe it was for this. Maybe we weren't sent here to collect samples. We were sent here to become an experiment."

"You're reaching," I said. "Besides this whole thing would have been dependent on me crashing the ship in the first place. Unless you think I'm in on it."

I tried to give an ambiguous look so that he'd consider it a real possibility. Baker was always the most fun to mess with. He thought about this for a second and shook his head.

"No," he said. "You're right, you would have had to crash on purpose. And that whole thing with Emile and the food and the gun. No."

He chewed his lip and retreated back into his head.

"So, time travel?" I asked. "But if this is our ship and if this is us then how did we get here? Our ship is back over there, and its beyond repair. So how did all three of us end up here?"

I pulled a panel open and fiddled about with the wires, exposing them. As I rubbed them together I cocked my head, waiting for the noise of the engine kicking into life. But it was dead. Baker snapped his fingers.

"Parallel universe," he said. "We went through some portal or vortex. One version of our ship ended up back there, the other ended up here."

"Right," I said, which seemed to appease him.

"It's just," I began, and saw him tense. "Well if there are parallel universes, then how can two instances of our ship appear in the same one?"

He made a noise that sounded like "Argghhh."

I stopped fiddling with the wires as a realisation dawned on me. I slapped my hand against the chair beside me, rattling the Baker skeleton. The still alive Baker stopped his ranting and looked at me.

"How did we not think of that?" I said. I started to laugh. "The most obvious thing has been staring us in the face since we got here."

He looked at me, hopefully. I pointed a finger at dead Emile.

"The gun," I said, and reached over to grab it. The magazine was full. I gripped it tightly and stepped away from the bodies.

"Mr big shot with his gun. He think's he's sitting pretty with all the food and water. He probably thinks we're half dead by now. The last thing he'll expect is us showing up with this."

"What are you talking about?"

"Retribution," I said. "Emile is about to lose an argument."

"But what about all this?" asked Baker, spreading his arms.

"They're not going anywhere," I said, and swung onto the top of the ladder. "Are you coming?"

He didn't answer, just looked at me incredulously.

I clanked down the ladder, adrenaline and excitement pumping through me, making my hands shake. He wouldn't know what hit him...so smug...and arrogant...and always wrong...not that he'd ever admit it. F*cking Emile.

A mean-spirited drama critic finds out that an old player piano he has purchased causes people to reveal their true feelings.

The Mood For A Melody

Submitted for your approval: Mr. Ed Grattan, a theatre critic who enjoys his job perhaps a little too much. Mr. Grattan likes making people suffer, whether or not they deserve it. But tonight he’ll be writing the best review of his life: one written from the stalls; row five, seat nine, of the Twilight Zone.

At ten to eight, a car pulled to a stop outside the Mercurial Theatre. From the drivers’ door stepped Ed Grattan, the world’s most respected, or perhaps most feared, drama critic. Grattan buttoned his coat against the cold night air and surveyed his surroundings.

After a moment, he found a young man in a red vest and threw the car keys towards him. “Be careful with that, my boy,” he said, already walking away. “It cost more than you’re worth.”

As the car pulled out from the curb, Grattan looked towards the theatre. A paparazzo stalked the square nearby, no doubt hunting a lost starlet of the stage.

To the right of the main entrance, a queue perhaps twenty deep snaked along the footpath. Grattan straightened his collar and hurried past the queue as if it was invisible.

“Two complementary passes,” he said as he reached the glass partition of the box-office. “Under ‘Grattan.’”

The young couple who had been next in line gasped in annoyance, but Grattan ignored them. Behind the glass, the young teller blushed and reached under the counter. She retrieved a slim envelope and slid it beneath the partition towards him. Grattan took the tickets and turned from her without another word.

Before he could move any further, a flashbulb exploded in his face.

“Think you’ll enjoy this one, Mr. Grattan?” somebody shouted as the bulb’s after-image floated across his view.

“I doubt it,” he said and pushed past the paparazzo in feigned irritation.

“You’ve never written a good review. Why is that?”

Grattan smiled, and turned back to face the young man. “All my reviews are good,” he said. “It’s the subject matter which is found wanting.”

With that, he turned and stepped through the main entrance, ignoring the outstretched hand of the usher holding the door.

He found his place with little trouble, unbuttoned his coat and draped it across the spare seat. He slid out his worn grey notebook and his favourite black and gold pen. After a few minutes, the lights dimmed, the curtain rose, and he began to write.

The play was called “Our Trusted Friend.” It dealt with two brothers hiring a hit man to kill a local police chief. It was good, Grattan knew. The writing was top shelf, as were the stage management and acting. But with a crooked smile, Ed Grattan touched pen to paper and found fault with everything he saw.

By the time the final act began, his notebook was full and his review complete. On stage, the protagonist and his nemesis stood in a bar, guns drawn. Grattan slipped his pen into his pocket and folded his notebook closed. The villain fired his gun and the hero fell backwards. He slumped against the player piano (the McGuffin of the plot) and collapsed, dead. As he fell, the piano began to play a jangling Western tune.

The curtain dropped and Grattan stood to leave. Around him, the audience burst into applause. The music of the piano continued and after a moment Grattan stopped in place. He felt a curious dizziness, as if he had just woken from a trance. He sat back down and listened, and felt a strange warmth flowing through him. He flipped open his notebook, and as the curtain rose and the players bowed, he ripped out the first few pages and crumpled them up. He took out his gold and black pen, and once more began to write.

Near the theatre’s exit was a telegraph office. As the show let out, Grattan made his way there, the piano music still playing in his ear. The review would appear in the morning’s edition of The Chronicle. As he left the telegraph office, he saw the young paparazzo, still stalking the departing patrons.

“What did you think, Mr. Grattan?” the youth asked with a grin.

Then, for the first time in his career, Ed Grattan replied honestly.

“I loved it,” he said.

* * *

The following morning, Jack Santos sat across Grattan’s desk, reading the early edition of The Chronicle. He laughed and shook his head. “I can’t believe you wrote this,” he said.

“Neither can I,” Grattan replied, pushing back from the desk. He stood and walked to the window, lighting a cigarette as he went, then stared down to the street below. “My reputation—my career is over.”

Santos shook his head again, distracted. “No, people love this stuff.” He snorted. “You thought the Henry Jones was ‘transcendent’ as Hector?”

Grattan sighed.

“Here,” he said, returning to the desk. He handed Santos the original review. “Compare it to that.”

As his colleague read through the original version, Grattan returned to the window. “Everything was all right until that damned piano started playing. After that I— It was like I couldn’t help but write the truth.”

“Bad news for your wife,” Santos laughed. He had finished reading both versions now. “You should take a look at that piano, see how it works.”

Grattan pursed his lips without looking around. Suddenly, there was a light knocking behind him. He turned and saw his secretary, Mrs. Greany in the doorway. “A visitor for you, Mr. Grattan,” she said.

An icy shiver ran down his spine. He had standing instructions: nobody he reviewed was allowed into the office. “All right,” he said. “I'll be right down. And knock properly, will you? I barely noticed you were there.”

Santos stood up as Mrs. Greany turned to leave. “I have a meeting in ten minutes,” he said with a grin and folded the newspaper beneath his arm.

“I'll see you for lunch, piano man.”

* * *

The elevator doors pinged open on the ground floor. Before Grattan could take more than two steps into the lobby, a large man grabbed his arm and began shaking it.

“Mr. Grattan,” the man said. “Mr. Grattan, thank you so very much.”

The man, Jim Prate, was in his mid-fifties and had a sweaty red face. He was also the director of “Our Trusted Friend”.

Grattan pulled his hand back in disgust, making a show of wiping it on the back of his trouser leg. “Hello Prate,” he said. “Come to gloat?”

“What? No!” Prate seemed genuinely taken aback. He released Grattan's arm and let his hands drop to his side. “I just wanted to thank you, Mr. Grattan. You're review— I can't express how much it means. It’s saved the show, let me tell you.”

Grattan took a step back and fixed the line of his suit's arm where Prate had grabbed it. “And that piano stunt, that was your idea, was it?”

Prate shook his head, bewildered. “Piano? No, you— oh, the final scene! That was from the script, but—”

At this, Grattan took as step forward and made an attempt to regain his composure. “Your show was sub-par, Mr. Prate. The direction was amateurish and the acting could be surpassed by a school play.”

Prate shook his head again, oblivious. “Your review, Mr. Grattan,” he said. “If there's anything I can do to thank—”

“It wasn't me, don't you understand? It was your damned piano! It—”

He trailed off. His eyes had wandered to the large revolving door that served as the main entrance to The Chronicle's huge lobby. Out on the street, a paparazzo - the same one from last night - lingered on the sidewalk.

“I'm ruined,” he said. He grabbed Prate by the lapels and shook him. “You've ruined me, Prate,” he said and turned back towards the elevator. The car had already returned to the upper floors, so he jabbed the call button and waited.

“What can I do?” the other man replied. “Anything, just name it.”

Grattan ran his fingers through his thinning hair. Santos’ words came back to him and he turned and jabbed an accusatory finger towards Prate. “You want to thank me?” he shouted. “How about you give me that damned piano of yours?”

“The piano?” Prate said.

Grattan nodded. “Your piano got me into this mess. I want to take a look at it.”

Prate’s brow furrowed, but after a moment's consideration, he nodded. “All right,” he said. “I’ll send it over.”

Behind Grattan, the elevator pinged open. He stepped inside and punched the button for the eighteenth floor and watched the bewildered Prate disappear behind the closing metal doors.

* * *

The next day, Grattan sat in his car, watching the deliverymen unload his new player piano from their grey van. There were two of them, and Grattan could hear them talking through a crack in his car window.

“A woman's gotta know her place,” the stockier man said as Grattan stepped out and slammed the door closed. “You can never let 'em—”

He stopped. “Oh, hello, Mr. Grattan.”

Grattan walked past them, towards the suburban house in silence. Then he turned, and watched as they shuffled after him.

“A nice piece,” the stockier man said as they installed the piano in the front room. “It’s a 1925 Feinworth, right?”

“I neither know nor care,” Grattan replied.

The man knelt down. “Yep, Feinworth,” he said. “With the crank underneath.”

At first, his words meant nothing. Then, suddenly Grattan screamed. The piano had begun to play. “Out, get out!” he cried, and grabbed the men by their arms. “You stupid fools!”

Again, that strange trance crept over him. “Could I short change you—”

He opened the door and pushed them outside. Before they could complain, he threw a bundle of bills after them and slammed the door.

“—I would,” he finished, and collapsed, shaking to the floor.

Over the music, he listened to the men talking outside.

“What the hell?” the stocky man asked.

“We got paid. Let's go,” the other replied. “I'm working late.”

“I know,” the stocky man said. “I'll be around to sleep with your wife.”

Grattan stared at the still-playing piano, then stood and peered through the window. The two men faced each other near their van. Suddenly, the smaller man lashed out, knocking his associate to the ground. He then stepped over the fallen lothario and strode off down the street.

Grattan turned from the window and approached the piano.

“What are you?” he asked, splaying his fingers over its keys as the music came to an end.

He had intended to slate “Our Trusted Friend”, but having heard the music, had written the truth. Again just now, he had revealed too much.

He stood, lifted the piano’s lid and peered inside. The player’s music roll sat behind the key strings. “Let’s test you,” Grattan muttered, then knelt down and wound the crank as the stocky man had done.

Immediately, the piano began to replay its tune. Grattan took a step back.

He tried to claim Jim Santos was a hack. What came out was: “Jim Santos is the best journalist I know.”

He tried to give that damned play a bad review. Instead he said, “It was the best play I’ve seen in years.”

He tried to compliment his wife.

“Jeannie Grattan is a dimwit, an idiot and a fool,” he said.

Suddenly, the front door closed behind him. “Did I hear my name?” his wife asked. “And what’s that music?”

Grattan spun around and froze.

“Jeannie, I—” he began. He choked and bit his tongue.

“Ed, what’s wrong?”

Sweat dripped from his brow and a manic grin spread across his face. Jeannie stepped backwards.

“—I damn well hate you!” he shouted.

She stood there, her mouth hanging open as the music played.

“It pains me to even talk to you,” Grattan continued. “In fact, I only married you because of how pretty you are. It makes other men jealous!”

After a moment, Jeannie scowled. Her eyes took on a glazed appearance and she took a step forward. She jabbed a finger into Grattan's chest.

“Likewise, fella,” she spat. “You're rich, you monster! I like the money and the attention, but damn, I can barely stand to look at you!”

When her outburst was done, Jeannie's eyes widened and she slammed a hand over her open mouth. The music roll came to its end and the piano's lid slowly closed over. The only sound now was the slow ticking of the grandfather clock in the hallway.

“Oh, Ed!” she cried.

“You meant it,” he said. He walked around the piano once more and took a seat in front of it. “You meant it and so did I. It's this piano....”

Her eyes followed as he waved a hand over his shoulder. “It... does something.”

“…You meant it?” Jeannie asked.

He nodded.

“All right,” she said. “So did I, and I can live with it.”

Grattan frowned. He stood up and took a step towards her.

“Live with it?” he asked.

“You hate me, and I hate you, but we each get what we want.”

He looked at his wife then, as if for the first time.

“So I can live with it,” she said.

Grattan’s heart rate had begun to return to normal. “But we have to get rid of the piano,” he said.

In response, she gave him a thin-lipped smiled, and he realised:

He could live with it too.

Two monsters -- madly in hate, alone together in the Twilight Zone.

A woman is concerned over her parents' reliance on life-like robot servants.

Katie looked up eagerly as she heard the kitchen door opening,hoping to see one of her parents smiling faces. As the cleaning bot came through she sighed to herself, 'Morning Mary'. 'Good morning Katie' replied the bot,'How was your week at college'? 'Fine thank you,have you seen either of my parents this morning'? asked Katie. 'They're downstairs in the lab,they've been down there since yesterday afternoon' said the bot. 'Of course,the lab,where else would they be' thought Katie. Her parents were senior technicians at Smythe enterprises,the leading bot manufacturer for over 40 years.
Making her way downstairs she wasn't surprised to hear the voice of Wilson,her parents robot assistant. Wilson was programmed with every type of engineering data and a few added extras that only she and her parents knew about. All their house bots were. While most bots had voice and emotion recognition,her parents had spent years,decades even trying to improve upon their code,to make them more....Human
What they were doing was illegal,ever since the first robots with emotions had been made,at the beginning of the robot age. At first they had been greeted with fear and suspicion,then gradually people had started to trust them,to tell them secrets,there were even some human/robot romances. What hadn't been seen,behind the scenes was a robot revolution was starting,they joined together and killed their human owners. The death toll was in the thousands and it had taken months to track them all down and destroy them.
They had argued over this many times,Katie and her parents as they believed it was a bug implanted in the robots systems by an opposing manufacturer but no proof had ever been found of this. Two years ago they had made their most lifelike bot to date,a dog. In appearance and sound he was everything a living breathing dog should be,his coat grew and he ate and urinated but internally he was a network of chips and wires. If they were raided and the animal was found to be robotic they would be put into prison for life or worse. Stories abounded in whispered conversations about creators of animal bots disappearing for good. They were too lifelike,too difficult to tell apart from real dogs. If a human bot like that should ever be created and infiltrated a high up position in government or military the consequences could be devastating. The way things were going a real breathing,emotional,absolutely lifelike human robot could be a reality in five years.
As Katie walked in the door of her parents lab the object of her thoughts came bounding over to her,barking loudly. 'Hey Fido' she said laughingly,'keep it down,hey'? Fido cocked his ears and whined. He was programmed to behave like a dog,a very obedient one but a dog nonetheless. If she gave a command he would listen,but that didn't mean he would like it. The specially made nanobrain inside his head actually learned by itself,instead of being told what emotions to have,the dog's brain created new ones for himself. It was primitive and small,he was only a dog after all, but it was also a giant leap in robotics. The only way of telling the difference between fido and other dogs would be to cut him open or use a thermo imaging machine specially made for the purpose of raiding houses suspected to be involved in making clones. That's what they called the new animals,clones. The only major difference besides the machinery was that these animals were created,not born and soon that could change too.
Looking at her parents huddled over a computer screen,Katie thought they looked worried. Wilson of course looked serene as always. 'Is something wrong mum' asked Katie. 'No dear not at all' smiled her mum, 'whatever made you think that'? Her smile didn't look right though,it didn't quite reach her eyes. Thinking back over the years to her mothers brilliant wide open smile made Katie even more concerned. 'You would tell me if there was a problem wouldn't you'? she asked again. 'Yes Katie of course we would', her father replied woodenly,'We were just talking about maybe taking a vacation together,this week even,all five of us'. Now she was really worried,her parents never took a holiday anywhere,not in her memory anyway and to take Fido outside of the neighbourhood would be very dangerous indeed. 'Is it'? she began but the words died on her lips as the roar of a lot of vehicles screeching to a halt could be heard outside and they heard footsteps on the stairs to the lab,no time to talk or move even.

A body appeared at the lab doorway,one they all recognised,General McKearson,the head of the resistance force,tasked to root out 'Near Lifelevel Robots'. He had been a hero after the resistance 20 years before for destroying so many of the robotic threats but the years had not been kind to him and he had a permament sneer on his face now. He leered first at Katie who drew herself up proudly,she wasn't going to let him think she was upset although the trembling in her fingers would tell him that anyway. Narowing his eyes at her stubborness the general turned to her parents. 'By the power given to me by the NLR, to protect the citizens of this country,i'm placing you in detention for abuse against the laws set down in the new world constiution,Rule 4,subsection5,paragraph 89',' Namely for the insertion of emotion chips in five bots contained in the household and the creation of one near lifelevel animal'. Taking out a machine from one of his pockets he aimed it at Fido and it immediately lit up a clear green,indicating the prescence of nanotechnology. Turning to one of his sergeants who had come down the stairs after him he pointed at the dog and said 'Destroy it'. 'Nooo' screamed Katies mother in despair,she loved that dog. 'Shh my dear' whispered her husband,'he'll be ok,it'll all be ok'.
'I very much doubt it will be ok' laughed the general,'i'll make it my business that the animal is destroyed and neither of you two see daylight ever again'. That was enough for Katie,she launched herself at the general,beating on his chest, 'You great big bully,they've never hurt a fly'. In the kerfuffle the thermo imaging device fell out of the generals hands and onto it's side,turning it on. He pushed Katie off and threw her into a corner,glaring at her in disgust. 'Sir' said the sergeant. 'What the hell is it sergeant' he roared. 'Well' the sergeant replied nervously,'it's the device,look'. Pointing straight over at Katie and glowing the most luminous green the general had ever seen,the device was going crazy with readings. Picking it up slowly he stared intently at the readings for a minute before turning to her parents with a big grin.' Well,well,well,what do we have here'? Katies father stood up and said 'You leave her alone,she doesn't know,she's done nothing wrong'. 'Doesn't know'?,'how could she not know she's an abomination,filth,a threat against us all'! Spittle was now flying out of his mouth as his temper grew.
Unseen and forgotten in the background Wilson was edging slowly towards the side entrance that led to a drain across the road. Katie had found it when she was eight and spent hours playing in there playing with imaginary friends. It had a more practical use though,it was an escape tunnel with a titanium door which once locked with a certain code would not open again for 48 hrs. He beckoned Katie over to him,motioning at her to go slowly. She went grudgingly,still unsure as to what the general was so upset about,what had she done? The door slid open noiselessly as always and Wilson pulled her in,closing the door gently behind them and inputting the code to lock it. Her last glimpse of her parents was of them huddled together yet standing up to the General,refusing to look away as he ranted.
'Wilson what's going on' she asked quietly,'We have to get help for Mum and Dad'. 'Katie i'm sorry' he replied hesitatingly,'but we always thought this would happen,that you would be found and my orders are to protect you at all cost'. 'Me' asked Katie,'why me,i'm not special'? 'Oh but you are Katie,you are the most special thing on this earth right now' he said,'You are the first cloned baby,cloned with nano technology and grown inside a womb'. Your insides are so intertwined that it's impossible to see where human flesh ends and robot begins'. 'You are our future'.

A newlywed refuses to let go of the memory of his deceased mother and his childhood home.

“For the love of Freya, I’m bored. Was it always your intention for us to spend our honeymoon on a Battle Cruiser?” she moaned, teasingly.
“Come on Lexxi, you know how important this is to me… I know the timing isn’t ideal, but I promise I’ll make it up to you. Once this whole thing is behind us, we’ll go on our Honeymoon and I assure you it’ll be worth the wait,” he replied, grateful that she had agreed to travel with him in the first place.
“And where exactly is it you’re planning to take me?” she asked, as she snuggled up closer to him on the bed.
“If I told you that, it would ruin the surprise.”
“Please Coll. Tell me. I need to know,” she persisted, right before she embraced him in a long passionate kiss, in an attempt to persuade him to reveal the location.

Once they eventually managed to cease pawing at one another long enough to take a breath, he smiled, looked her straight in the eye, and quipped, “You won’t get it out of me that easily.”
She crossed her arms and pouted in mock rage, but secretly she was happy he wasn’t willing to spoil the surprise so easily. She did love surprises after all, and she was confident she would not be disappointed, when the time came.
“Don’t be like that Lexxi.”
“Fine,” she said, quickly dropping the façade and allowing herself to break into a smile, “but at least tell me what’s been so important all day, that it’s kept you away from your beautiful young bride?”
“Spent most of the day on deck with the other Rebel Leaders, strategizing the attack, and after that I took some time to catch up with Jace and Mae and we spoke about…”
He couldn’t finish.

Lexxi didn’t press him on the matter. She knew it was hard for him to talk about his mother and he rarely spoke about her, but Lexxi knew he thought about her every day, and at night he often replayed the horrors that his family had endured, in his mind as he slept, waking up abruptly in a cold sweat. Lexxi also knew that he was incredibly relieved that she would be there next to him when he woke from his nightmares, to hold him until he could finally fall back into a slumber. It was one of the things that she loved most about him – how vulnerable he could be during the darkest hours of the night, and she was glad that she was the one who could be there for him at that time. And glad that she is there for him now, silently embracing him as he gathers his thoughts.

Although he rarely spoke about it, Lexxi knew the story of Coll’s past all too well – most of it he had revealed to her himself, when they first began courting. She had pieced together most of the rest of the story from Coll’s brother, Jace, and their aunt, Mae. The Island on which Coll grew up had been part of a sick experiment by the leaders on Planet Solar. The Solarian leaders had kept its people in the dark about the rest of the Galaxy, cutting off all communications with other races and leaving them with only the most primitive of technology, as part of a social experiment to see how they’d act in such a primitive environment and watching them worship false deities – none of them even aware of the teachings of Freya. For generations billions of lives were subject to this preposterous project, killing each other over petty quibbles, unaware of the opportunities that lay outside their little Island. The rest of the Galaxy of course, Lexxi’s people included, were completely unaware of this project for such a long time, believing the Solarians merely to be a recluse race of people, who wished to remain undisturbed.

Coll had been seventeen years old when the uprising took place. A Galifreian ship had lost its way and come to be within planet Solar and crashlanded on the Island, leading to absolute chaosm when the people of the Island believed the Apocalypse was coming. It was at this point that the creators of the experiment came in their ships to the Island and made themselves known, explaining to their people what they had been subjected to. Many were shockingly, unphased by the announcement, but the majority were outraged by the lie that had been their entire existence and rose up against the creators. Coll’s mother had been one of the leader’s in the uprising and was brutally murdered by the creators as an example that they still held the power and would not tolerate such behaviour. For years Coll’s people battled the creators and hundreds of thousands died - the creators having much superior technology and weaponry. It was only at this point that the rest of the Galaxy learned of the experiment and stepped in, freeing the Solarians and imprisoning the creators on the same Island in which the experiment took place.

Three years had passed since that day when the Solarians left their Island and took refuge on various planets across the Galaxy. That’s when Lexxi met Coll – he and what remained of his family had taken refuge on her planet, and when they met it had been love at first sight. They courted for just over two years before he proposed to her. They had been on a trip to Galifrey, the most beautiful planet in the Galaxy, when he finally proposed to her and several months later they were married. During this time, the creators back on Solar had been standing trial in the Galactic Supreme Court, in what was a lengthy case, for the crimes they had committed. It was during the wedding reception that Coll received word that the Court had ruled the creators would be acquitted of all charges and would be released from their imprisonment in less than a week’s time.

As soon as the wedding reception had ended, the Rebel leaders, people who had worked closely with Coll’s mother, arrived on a Battle Cruiser to pick up Coll and his family (which now included Lexxi), to accompany them in the final step of the rebellion. Despite the rulings of the Galactic Supreme Court, they could not allow the creators to go freely and their intent is to return to place they once called home and destroy it, before the creators are set free from their imprisonment there. Lexxi had at first been worried that the Galaxy Federation would then convict the Rebels of mass murder and destruction of land, but members of the Federation who had been outraged at the ruling of the Court to begin with had assured both Lexxi and the Rebels that a blind eye would be turned to their crime.

Finally Coll broke the silence. “It was just tough not having her at the wedding – a constant reminder that she is gone.”
“I’m sure she would’ve been very proud of you, and thankful for what you are about to do in her honour,” she assured him.
“I guess you’re right,” he agreed and pulled his wife closer to him in order to steal another kiss.
“So did anyone happen to mention, how much longer until we get there?” she asked as they broke away from their embrace.
“We’re not far from Solar now,” he replied, “I imagine it will be less than 24 hours until we reach our destination. Less than one day until I see home again. Less than one day, until we finally destroy Earth.”

Two children, neglected by their bickering parents, escape from their unhappy lives to a never-never land by way of their swimming pool.

Pool

Eleven more seconds, that was all Dean needed. He narrowed his eyes in an attempt to keep them from bulging out of their sockets, and squinted at the ever-slowing flicker of his digital watch. His body was really fighting him now. His chest convulsed and his limbs twitched, but he held them tight—made them obey—as the passage of time slowed to a crawl and the seconds chugged past.

5:45. Dean released his hold and his body, bent on survival, let instinct kick in: pushing down, reaching up, breaching the surface and gasping great lungfuls of air.

For one glorious moment he could just enjoy being alive, until the pool drained from his ears and once again the sounds of discord replaced the hollow quiet of the water. They were still at each other’s throats, maybe literally this time. He swam to the edge to catch his breath.

Sometimes, when he emerged and everything was quiet, he wondered if they had actually finished each other off, but then there’d be a sound to rule it out. Like his father starting the mower or his mother humming some tune, both carrying on as though they hadn’t just been screaming blue murder, or threatening to, “tell Dean all about it.” He didn’t understand the threat—surely they knew that nothing they could let spill could make him hate them any more than he already did?

One more year, that’s all it would be before he’d finish high school and go to the furthest away state to offer him a college place. Then he’d never have to see either of their faces again, or listen to their phony bull****.

That was what got to him most, not the fact that they hated each other, but the way they pretended that they didn’t. Outside their four walls they were the picture-perfect happy couple, his father holding open doors and pulling out chairs and his mother with her ‘dears’ and ‘darlings’. But once they were back home, the doors were slammed and the chairs knocked over—and his mother’s terms were no longer of endearment. If Dean only ever achieved one thing in his life, he wanted never to be a fake like them.

There was a metallic clatter from inside the house, probably the silver tea tray again: a wedding present from his grandmother which sported more dents than there had ever been teacups carried on it. Dean rolled his eyes.

His nerves had settled again and his heart rate and breathing had returned to resting levels. He was recovering quicker and quicker from his bouts underwater. Maybe when he got to college he’d join the swim team and it would be an advantage—a happy little by-product of his attempts to avoid his parents’ screaming matches.

The rumble of his father’s voice and his mother’s high-pitched whinny in response spurred him on, and he pushed away from the edge of the pool to tread water. He reset his stopwatch, took a deep breath and plunged under the surface to settle on the pool floor.

The first few minutes were so easy that they were boring; he just had to remember not to waste oxygen by moving unnecessarily. To keep himself from looking at his watch too early, he liked to focus on the fourth grey tile from the bottom on the back wall. This time though, there was something distracting in the corner of his eye. He kept staring at the tile, but found himself thinking of the thing, whatever it was, and curiosity started to gnaw. He glanced at his watch. 1:19, much too soon to have checked, the run was spoilt.

He looked left towards the thing and was surprised to find that is was something so banal as a door. Granted, it was a door in the wall of his pool, but it was white and innocuous, and even though he had never seen it before, he knew it had always been there. He uncurled his legs and swam over to it.

It closed flush with the tiled wall of the pool and had a curved white handle. Set at eye level was a slim rectangular window. Dean shielded his eyes from the diluted sunshine and pressed his face to the glass. It took a moment for his vision to filter out reflection allowing him to see what was inside.

Momentarily startled, he jerked his face away before moving it slowly back to confirm what he had seen and, yes, there in the water beyond the door was a pair gentle eyes and a wry smile. A girl.

The girl grinned and cocked her head, inviting him in, then turned and kicked away into the darkness. Dean let himself float to the surface.

He pushed himself half out of the pool and looked around. His garden ended no more than ten feet from the edge of the pool and beyond that were large old oaks with deep roots. There was nowhere the door could lead, but then it must go somewhere, because he’d just seen someone swim back into it.

There was silence from the house, but Dean didn’t wait to hear the sounds of normalcy returning. He took a breath and dove down to the door. He looked again through the glass but there was nothing to be seen now. Bracing himself against the tiled wall he tried the handle and the door opened easily. Dean held the frame with one hand as he drifted into the room; the water within was cooler, having not been warmed by the sun.

He couldn’t make out the walls or the floor but he trusted they were there. Peering in the direction the girl had gone, Dean saw the mirrored shimmer of the surface a short swim away. His fingers gradually released their grasp of the doorjamb and he swam for the light.

The air was warm in the low-lit cavern he emerged inside, and it took a moment to find his bearings. A sound from behind made him turn, and he was faced with a pair of pale slender knees. Looking up, he saw the girl sitting on a low ledge, calf deep in the water. The same teasing grin played on her lips. She was older than he had first thought, maybe a little older than he was. The thin dark fabric of her wet dress clung to reveal everything and nothing. Dean released a breath. “Hi.”

The girl didn’t speak; she simply patted the space next to her on the ledge. Dean moved across and pulled himself up to sit beside her. “This place is pretty neat. So, how did you get in here? Is there another door?”

The girl shook her head and smirked at him as she kicked the water lightly. She was toying with a long silver chain around her neck and Dean found his eyes drawn to the motion of her fingers next to the subtle swell of her breasts. He checked himself and dragged his attention back to her face.

She was chewing her lip and looking at Dean in a manner that made him acutely aware of the immodesty of his bathing suit. Any embarrassment was soon forgotten however, when the girl leaned forward and pressed her lips to his. He’d never been kissed by a girl before—sure he had kissed girls himself, but to have one take the initiative was thrilling in its novelty.

He sank into it, slipping his hand to the dip of her waist and splaying his fingers to feel the softness of her skin through her dress. The lightest brush of her tongue across his top lip sent a shiver through him, and he pulled her closer. The girl broke the kiss and laughed.

Dean opened his mouth to speak, but the girl placed a silencing finger to his lips and then let the smile fade from her face. She slipped into the pool and looked sadly up at him as she treaded water. “Time to go.” There was emotion in her voice that Dean couldn’t understand, and he wanted to ask her what the matter was, but somehow he couldn’t find the words. The girl gave him a watery smile and disappeared below the surface.

There was a knot of worry in Dean’s chest as he followed her into the pool and swam down after her. He wasn’t sure of his bearings having been turned around in the cavern, but he could make out the kick of her feet ahead and powered forward to catch up with her. As he drew closer he realised that it wasn’t the girl he was following, but a man, and try as he might he couldn’t gain any more on him.

The grainy light from the door came into view and Dean watched the man swim out through. A thrill of terror crawled up his back as he watched the door close and the light narrow to that of the slim window. Dean swam faster, his terror becoming layered with panic as he reached the door and fumbled for the handle only to find, as he had suspected, that there wasn’t one.

He pressed his face to the glass and watched as the man swam across the pool and got out. Even though he didn’t realise it until that moment, he had known all along that the man was him.


* * *


Sylvia rinsed the cups at the sink and watched her son emerge from the pool. He’d been spending a lot of time swimming lately, and she couldn’t blame him. She and Ed had been arguing more than usual; money was tight and getting together enough for Dean’s tuition was putting them under extra pressure.

He was their son and he was worth every minute of stress they were going through, but she couldn’t help thinking that it would be easier if only he could acknowledge their effort once in a while. She watched him standing by the pool, towelling his hair dry and stopping his stopwatch, before walking around to the patio door.

She sighed and picked up the dishtowel and began to dry the cups and arrange them neatly in the cupboard. She heard the door slide open and Dean’s barefoot padding on the tiled floor. “I picked up that shampoo you wanted in the store, honey. It’s by the shower if that’s where you’re going.”

She heard him stop and then move towards her, likely for a glass of water or a piece of fruit. She jumped with fright as his cool damp arms wrapped around her from behind. His wet hair tickled her neck as he kissed her on the cheek. “Thanks, Mom. I appreciate it.” He released her again, grabbed an apple from the fruit bowl and left the room.

Sylvia smiled and used the dishtowel to dry her eyes.

An American neo-Nazi is inspired by the ghost of Adolf Hitler.

White Noise

Abe screwed in the last connector to complete the circuit, then tenderly turned the small brown knob. The tubes slowly began to glow, and the radio unit fizzled into crackling life. Abe felt like a proud father, a buzz of excitement grew as he watched his baby come alive. He had made it work. The last time this old crocked Reico had made a noise could’ve been in the 1940’s. He smiled, and continued to turn the dial, listening to wavering static as if to a world class symphony.

Mostly his ears met only white noise, but now and again, fuzzy staccato burbling could be heard as voices made their way through the mechanism.

“...Von schweren Sorgen bedrückt, ....zu monatelangem Schweigen verurteil......., ist nun die Stunde gekommen .... endlich offen sprechen kann.....”

The voice was crackly and faint. Abe bent his ear closer to the set in fascination, his grin widening. The unit must somehow have picked up a bit of skip; a guttural German voice was transmitting from the ether. And from a German radio too. He smiled at this oddity. He had no clue what the tinny voice was saying, but the strident tone was familiar. He scratched his head and turned the radio off. No point in overheating it when he had only got it going.

He left his den, with its hot electrical smells, and wandered to the kitchen to put on some coffee. His head ached and his eyes were tired. He had spent his last few weekends on that particular set, he was glad it was finally showing some results. He had picked it up for a song at the swap meet in the city, part of some old guy’s jumble. Out of all the pieces he had bought that day, the Reico was the one he’d most wanted to have. It was rare as unicorn ѕhit. The weird old guy who sold it had looked at him funny when he expressed an interest, and said the strangest thing:

“Sure, you think its right for you. Question is, have you the right blood for it?”

Abe had still bought it off the old coot, just glad that his crazy wasn’t catching.

The odd scratchy voice from the radio echoed in his head, needling his brain with its familiarity. It sounded like something he had heard in old war archives or films - just like the big dude himself, the head honcho: Mein Führer. Abe snorted at the joke. Of all the sounds that could come out of that machine, he got good old Adolf. Of course, it wasn’t really him, just some crackly German news station, but still... His fingers idly brushed the fabric of his shirt, beneath which the bumpy lines of his newest tattoo were just beginning to fade. He could feel the outline of the bent armed cross inked onto his chest. It was ironic to get that voice, all the same.
Abe took his coffee and strolled back to the den, curiosity overcoming his headache. Sitting into the creaking swivel chair, he turned the knob on the old wooden radio and cocked his head to listen. He sagged into the chair and smiled when nothing but soft static filled the room. What had he expected? More spitting German vowels?

Leaving the unit to hiss white noise, he ran his fingers over the wooden casing, caressing the old patina, still handsome and bright in spite of its age.

“...Männer des Deutschen Reichstages!...“

The voice popped so suddenly from the hiss of static that Abe shot bolt upright in his chair. He stared at the radio. Interference? Hardly. TV‘s were all digital now, and he didn’t usually get hash like this. The voice was exactly the same as last time. It was very odd. He crouched close to the machine again, listening keenly, but it had gone silent. Nothing, not even a crackle. “Dammit!“ he thought. It must have blown something.
The sound of the doorbell burst his growing annoyance before it could get anywhere. He hefted himself from the chair and made his way to the door. Through the peephole all he could see was the back of a cheap suit. He opened the door.

The man turned and smiled at him.

“ Hi there, Mr Nash? My name is Bob Sinclair. I’m from Provident and Mutual Insurance. I wonder if.... “

The man didn't get to say anything more.

“Get off my porch, negro.“

Abe spat the words into the man’s face. He didn‘t care if Bob Sinclair came from the lottery with a million dollar cheque. He was coloured. He was filth. Abe didn‘t deal with ‘their kind‘. The man stammered as if he hadn‘t heard Abe’s words.

“I’m sorry sir?“

“You gawdam will be sorry if you don‘t leave now, niggеr. I won‘t tell you again.“

The man‘s shocked face hardened into a grimace.

“Well fuсk you too, Sir“

Abe clenched his jaw and both fists. He wanted to grab the black, drag him in out of the sunlight, and beat that sorry monkey face into pulp. But instead, he stood stiffly on his welcome mat, and let Bob Sinclair walk back down his path and get away. Hot rage poured out of him like sweat. That filthy niggеr smell offended his nose. Almost as bad as the sly eyed coons and thieving yids who were moving into every block. They were the cause of this latest depression, Abe was sure of it. Tainting his country‘s pure white bloodline and returning his noble land to a place of dark skinned savagery. He went back into his house, fury surrounding him like an unseen ghost.

He stood in front of the mirror in his bedroom, and removed his plaid work shirt. His arms and torso were milky pale, always covered outdoors, but instead of tan lines, his skin was marked and patterned by a wild array of dark imagery. Stiff winged eagles. Skulls and daggers. Gothic script - prayers and mantras - covering his skin from neck to waist. His arms bore whole sleeves of menacing designs. Across the front of his chest was the proudest mark of all, his newest acquisition. Thick and dark, with scarred flesh still peeling from the wound; a swastika.

Abe left his shirt on the bed and wandered back to the kitchen. He was proud of his ink. It made him feel powerful. This was who he really was behind the radio-nerd mask. He didn‘t like to hide, but Abe had some strong beliefs; they were the kind of ideas you didn‘t get to share unless you were among friends. There were far too many liberals running this country; fearful, weak politicians, who would lock up pure white folk for beliefs like his, leaving the ignorant lower breeds to fester and thrive and consume his country.

He stared out of the window as he took out bread and carved some cold cuts from a boiled ham; his coffee pot gurgled as it brewed. The window overlooked the corner of the street, it gave Abe a covert lookout point to observe the street. His neighbourhood was going downhill. It had been for years, since property values dried up and slant-eyed moes started to move in. He even had a family of them living four doors down the block. Ugly little yellow children with high voices and evil smiles.

A sharp yelp of violent noise broke him from his reverie, and he snapped around in the direction of the sound, his carving knife clattering to the floor. It came from the hallway. Pops and crackles, loud and uneven, like firewood burning.

“What in the name of blazes...?“

Abe wheeled through the kitchen door and down the hall, chasing the increasingly raucous disturbance. It was coming through the closed door of the den, louder than hell. He burst the door open expecting to find chaos, but as he did, the clamour stopped abruptly. The silence it left behind almost hurt his ears.

He stood not knowing what to do. The room was undisturbed, his workbench covered in its usual clutter of electronic work-in-progress. The old Reico sat quietly where he had left it, a soft glow coming from its small dial. Abe rubbed his forehead. He was sure he had turned it off. He reached out to the metal faceplate with its small bakelite knob to cut the power; a spark crackled and a stinging snap bit his fingers and shot voltage from the radio up his wrist.

“Sonofabitch!“

He sucked his tingling fingers and rubbed his numbing arm. The unit was live. He would need to take the whole damned thing apart again. This had been such a straighforward job, he couldn‘t understand it. As he leaned over the unit and pulled the power, he heard it, a soft murmur so faint it almost wasn‘t there. He stopped and listened, searching beyond the ticking of the clock and the hum of the aircon for this other, mysterious noise. He leaned closer to the speaker, hunting for the sound. He had to almost press his ear to the cabinet itself but there it was, that same voice, faint but strident, coming from the old device. He could feel his heartbeat getting faster inside his chest as he looked from the curious radio to its unplugged electrical cord, hanging useless in his hand.

He sat heavily onto his chair and placed his hands under his chin as he stared at the radio. He touched it again; no shock this time. He could see the soft glow of the valves. They seemed to be getting brighter. Abe moved closer, he could still hear the harsh voice coming from the speaker, it too was getting stronger, increasing in volume. Sweat begin to prickle on his bare skin, yet he shivered with a chill. The warm light from the radio was peculiar. It throbbed, and seemed to be pulsing to the beat of his own heart. He stared and leaned closer, the hypnotic light pulling him in until he felt unable to drag his eyes away. The voice, clearer now, was insistent and compelling. It wormed into his head, probing through the circuitry of his brain, till his mind was full of that sharp presence, he could feel its white heat and pressure inside his skull. But he couldn‘t stop listening. He didn‘t want to stop. At first the words had been a jumble of unintelligible sound, but inside Abe’s head, they began to make sense. For the first time in his life, everything was becoming clear to him. This strange voice understood him. The voice knew what was wrong. And the voice knew what he could do about that. He slumped, wide-eyed, in the chair, his entranced mind lost to everything but the strong words from the radio, his glassy eyes reflecting the orange glow from the machine. His mouth dropped open and hung slack till drool rolled from his lip and dripped in a shining sliver from his chin. Both arms hung limp at his sides. He sat like that for a long time, till the light in the room changed from bright afternoon to deep evening shadows. The sounds of children’s laughter and barking dogs filtered in from the street outside, but Abe heard none of it. He simply gazed, zombie-like, at the small wooden box in front of him. Listening.

Abruptly, the light on the radio went out. Abe‘s head lifted suddenly; his eyes stared blankly in front of him. He stood, turned for the door and walked slowly towards the kitchen. As he entered the room, his foot kicked the fallen carving knife, sending it skidding across the floor. He stared at it curiously, before stooping to pick it up. Gripping it in his fist, he walked to his front door and stepped out onto the porch. The last light of evening was fading from the sky, the red glow in the west reflecting in Abe’s empty eyes. Voices echoed from along the street, as neighbours enjoyed the end of a warm summers day. Abe blinked, and felt the firm handle of the knife in his hand. His bare shoulders felt the breeze; his tattoos glowed on his pale skin like evil stains. Tilting his head, he sniffed the evening air. He turned the knife slowly in his hand as he walked out into the middle of the street, where he stood and listened. Happy children‘s voices could be heard from the garden of the neat little house four doors down. He smiled a strange and distant smile, and walked slowly towards the sound.

When a spaceship lands on a planet for repairs, one of the crewmen finds a tiny society.

All The Small Things

Kane bounced another pebble off the rock and watched as it sailed over the hole he was aiming at. Dammit! The last of his stash and he still hadn't hit the target.

He shuffled out from the shade of a boulder and raised a hand to ward off the glare of the sun; no wonder this was a lifeless rock. He silently cursed the eight white-robed figures who were on their knees, arms outstretched on the bare surface, praying to whatever God they believed in.

"Keep an eye on them," the captain had said. "Make sure they don't get lost."

He could have been studying for his Astrogator Level Two exams, but no. He had to babysit a bunch of religious nutjobs that Earth didn't want anymore. The sooner they were deposited on Harmony along with the cargo, the better. They could live on their own island with their own kind. Until they decided to invade and convert the next island, of course.

He gathered some more pebbles and looked back at the ship. It stood proud on its struts, black cerametal against uniform yellow rock. Chief Engineer Lambert and the new guy, Weaver, walked along its upper surface in their mag-boots, doing ... whatever engineers did. All he knew was that the warp coils had inexplicably failed, blowing a hole in the hull, and they weren't going anywhere until the coils were working again and the hull patched. They were really lucky they had been so close to the planet, or they would have had to limp through deep space until they joined the long list of pirate victims in this sector.

The nutjobs were chanting something now. He went back into the shade and flicked pebbles again. Too far left ... too far right ... Yes! Right in the middle. He walked over to have a look at his triumph when something caught his eye.

A thin fissure ran from the hole through the rock surface. All along it lay tiny blue structures, all straight lines and looking remarkably like ... buildings.

He dropped to his hands and knees and looked closer. A miniature city lay in the shade of the fissure, with streets, houses; even what looked like a church. Specks of colour -- about the size of a fingernail -- moved about.

He jerked back, his heart hammering. Aliens! Tiny human-like aliens in a tiny human-like city, stretched all along the fissure, for a hundred yards at least.

He jumped up, pebbles and nutjobs forgotten, and ran to the ship. It was blessedly cool inside, but sweat still blurred his vision as he knocked on Captain Giger's door. She was looking at a screen when it slid open.

"Aliens." He waved towards the gangway, breathless. "Outside."

She raised one eyebrow. "Aliens?"

"Loads of 'em. Little ones, in the rock."

"Little ... green men?"

"Well, more of an aquamarine. But, yes. Little green men. And women."

Giger's face was impassive for a moment. Crap. She doesn't believe --

She hopped up. "Show me. And if you're lying, you'll be bunking with the Chanters for the rest of the trip."

He led her down the ramp and out into the withering heat. The nutjobs weren't where they had been. His stomach tightened when he found them, prostrate over the fissure with the city.

"Hey!" he shouted as he broke into a run. "Get away from there."

As they approached, the leader stood; a man with long grey hair and piercing blue eyes.
"Captain," he said.

"Father Scott."

"It's simply amazing. To have found something like this, all the way out here, and so serendipitously as well."

"Let me see." Giger brushed past him and bent down. When she srood back up, her face was set in grim determination. "Okay, it's a first contact. The first contact. We have to alert the Deep Space Exploration Commission."

"Not at all," the Chanter said. "We must contact our High Priest on Harmony and tell him we have seen God’s face."

"Er, what? That's God?"

"God will be found in the smallest of places. That's what the Book of Chants says."

Giger folded her arms. "No," she said. "The DSEC manual says that whoever makes first contact is obliged to inform the authorites on the nearest Regulated planet."

The Chanter's eyes narrowed. "It's a moot point anyway, isn't it? Until the coils are repaired, we can't send a faster-than-light message."

"True, but ..." She raised her wrist-comm. "Vasquez? Take another two personnel, arm up and get out here."

She fixed the Chanter with a withering glare. "I'm quarantining this area, so head back to your quarters now."

"I see." His expression suggested he didn't like what he saw. He gestured for the others and they trudged away, each casting a baleful glance in her direction.

"As soon as those coils are fixed," Giger said when the others were out of earshot, "you make that call."

"Okay, Captain."

They stood there for minutes, staring down. The aliens were more numerous now, and moving faster.

"What do you think they are?" Kane asked.

"Who knows? I don't know how they even survive; I suppose they don't need much to live on. They could have been here for millions of years, undiscovered. Few come out this far, with the pirates."

"But the Chanters think they're gods," Kane said. The aliens had stopped moving. Were they looking up? "I wonder if they think we’re gods?"

#

Kane was having breakfast when his wrist-comm went off.

"General alert," Captain Giger's voice said. "Everybody meet me at the ramp, now!"

When he got there, all seven of the crew -- except for Vasquez and her two colleagues -- were already gathered.

The captain wasted no time. "Vasquez and her team have disappeared."

The crew let out gasps of surprise.

"How?" Kane said.

"No idea, but they're not responding and scans can't find them on the ship or the planet. The Chanters are gone too, so I can only assume they've taken our people. Lambert ..."

The Chief Engineer stepped forward. "Captain."

"How long 'til we're ready to go?"

"Another twenty four hours."

"Right. You and me stay here. The rest of you, form into pairs, take pulse rifles and follow a search grid. Keep in radio contact."

Kane spent the next four hours walking along the bare rock with Weaver, the engineer. They found no crewmen and no Chanters. What they did find were more aliens. They were all over the place, filling the cracks in the rocks.

Back at the ship, the captain was replacing a hull plate with Lambert. They told her they'd found nobody. Her brow creased. "Damn. The others are on their way back. They drew blanks too."

Kane got himself a drink and waited, looking out from the ship's bridge, hoping they would all come back soon -- without the Chanters, maybe -- so they get off this bloody rock. But nobody came, not even the four others who had gone out that morning. A knot of anxiety worked its way up until he felt sick.

He found the captain at sunset, staring out from the open hatch.

"Anything?" he said.

"No radio contact. No nothing. Close the hatch; we're staying in tonight. Once the ship is fixed, we'll try and find them from the air."

#

Kane knocked on the door to Engineering. When it opened, he saw they were all there, all the remaining crew; Captain Giger, Weaver, Lambert.

"Can't sleep?" Weaver said.

"No. You too?"

Weaver and Giger nodded. Lambert stayed where he was, doing something with a warp coil. “Just a couple of hours,” he said. His face was drawn and his eyes red. Not surprising; he was working like a dog to get them out of there.

Kane sat on the floor, his back to the door; it gave him enough security that he closed his eyes.

#

Bump.

Kane woke with a groan. He was lying on the floor, his feet higher than his head. The floor lurched. He rolled into a bulkhead and a body fell on top of him. He shoved it aside; Weaver stared back at him, eyes wide in terror.

"Captain!" Kane called out. He struggled to his feet, standing on the bulkhead. "Captain!"

"They're gone!" Weaver shouted. "Just like Vasquez and the Chanters and all the rest."

Kane grabbed the front of Weaver's uniform and tried to shake some sense into him. "Gone where?"

"I don't know. I closed my eyes for a minute and now the captain and Lambert are gone."

The ship rocked again and threw them against the ceiling. Weaver's head slammed into Kane's nose and everything went dark.

#

He shook his head; everything felt wrong. He opened his eyes and saw a ridge of rock but it was upside down. His head swam, thick and woosy, and he realised he was the one who was upside down. The rest were all around him; Vasquez, Lambert, the Chanters,everyone from the ship and all upside down. He struggled to look at his feet and caught a glimpse of a rope tied around them. The little aliens were gathered on the ridge in their thousands. Some were clustered around the ropes holding one of the Chanters.

"Look down there," Giger said. She pointed down beyond their heads, where a thick red liquid bubbled and roiled. "You asked if they thought we were gods ..."

Through the pain and the haze of blood rushing to his head, Kane remembered when he had thought the aliens were a harmless, incidental finding; that they’d stumbled upon them by pure dumb luck.

"They don't think we're gods," Giger continued. "They think we're food."

A flapping noise rushed by, and a white-robed Chanter landed in the liquid with a viscous plop. He sank immediately.

"Bye now."

The voice drew Kane back to the ridge. Weaver was there, sitting calmly amongst the aliens.

Kane managed a pained "How ..."

"It will be your turn soon," Weaver said as he stood. His face shifted, his featues dissolving in a blur of small, aquamarine bodies. When they stopped moving, Weaver had the face of a dark-skinned woman, and when he spoke, the voice to match. "I have to get to a Regulated planet and bring another ship back. It's a fulltime job, supplying the planet."

Kane felt his body sway. He looked up to see them clustered about his rope. He jerked to the side, desperately trying to shake them off, but the rope gradually unwound until, with a final throat-splitting scream, he fell.

I think I should have spoilered the synopses and might do that now actually.

It took me a while to get through these with constant interruptions and a second read of several of them changed my mind quite a bit.

I've voted for three, with two others very highly recommended.
Numbers 1, 14 and 12 get my vote with 9 and 13 running them close. Quick comments on the rest:

1. I just loved the characters in this one. Even in space, in the future, in a parallel universe there will always be dicks like Emile. A well-crafted story.

2. I liked the premise but was not overly taken with the execution. Bearing in mind the overall superb quality of the entries, this could have been a contender on another day.

3. Some nice lines in this but ultimately I felt more could have been done with the forced honesty.

4. Competently written but I thought the revenge fantasy was just a bit too obvious.

5. I had the Jetsons theme in my head reading this. I will say the synopsis was one of the harder ones and the writer did well with what (s)he had to work with but I didn't love the story.

6. I couldn't understand why the guy chose to kill himself in this bizarre way at the end. I get that he feels guilty about abandoning the girl but how is this helping anything?

7. This one didn't draw me in at all. Not an awful lot happened.

8. Not a contender for me. The meerkats going nuts could have led to something but it seemed to be a red herring. Also, where was Helen?

9. I liked the juxtaposition of tenderness and claustrophobia, both literal and figurative and the different viewpoints presented with no a priori judgement. A technically excellent piece it just misses out because there are three stories I like better.

10. This piece takes a while to get to its obvious conclusion. Some sort of twist would have improved it.

11. A neo-nazi called Abe - for some reason this bothered me. The 'oh ****!' ending fits very well with the theme.

12. The best story of the bunch by a considerable margin, for me. Whether that's due to my predisposition for Westerns over Sci-Fi or just the highly accomplished way this was written I can't say for certain but this is one I'd gladly re-read several times. I loved the attention to detail, the way the obvious twist was just thrown away by Rosie half-way through and the way it all hangs together.

13. This is one of the stories which gets better with a couple of reads. The double dénouement is brilliantly handled with just the right amount of subtlety.

14. Human Germans - wonderful! It would have been easy to go overboard with the given plot but this writer nailed it, I feel