The Fall by M. Pax

We are excited to welcome science fiction author, M. Pax to LQR this month. She has graciously shared her exciting interpretation of this month's freedom theme. Please help us show our appreciation by sharing the link to her story with your friends and family!

Imprisoned by a mysterious alien enforcer, humanity’s last hope must battle for the right to a future.

***

If Galloway didn’t let me go soon, humanity would be lost, and the galaxy’s sentries would crown a less-deserving victor. My breaths chafed, my pulse labored, and my eyelids throbbed. The days passed by too long.

All the enhanced traits my ancestors had endowed me with slipped away. To conserve what energy remained, I knelt unmoving in a puddle of light leaking in from the top of the east wall, watching the sliver dance on my wrists. Silver on silver.

The mulcer next door paced, growling. I could smell its foul drool, hear it splashing to the ground. The beast wanted to kill me. Time would beat it to the task. My vigor bled with every heartbeat into the unyielding alloy beneath me.

The alien technology, or whatever Galloway was, chose that moment to answer my plea. The wall in front of me evaporated. I didn’t have to be told to run toward the portal— the transport to the planet.

I had to fight the mulcer for a future. Its huge jaws snapped at me. Striped and scaly, its enormous head consisted mainly of teeth and eyes. Two bulbous pus-like irises sank every time the mulcer opened its mouth. Its breath reeked like burnt leaves dipped in tar left to molder in a steamy swamp then set on fire.

We raced for the portal to claim the rights to the planet. Not willing to let my unborn heirs down, I dug in, tapping into every souped-up trait that could help me triumph—speed, endurance, increased lung capacity and blood flow, tenacity, and valor.

The beast inched ahead of me, gliding along on the slime trail it shed. Thinking only of what failure meant—never another chance—I sprinted toward the orange glowing sphere, eking two steps in front of the mulcer. At that point, I leaped. Arms straight out, body reaching, I dove into the portal.

In a nanosecond, I materialized on humanity’s new world. Unfortunately the mulcer did, too. It pounced, jaws straining for my throat. Swinging a foot, I kicked it in the teeth then jumped for a tree branch. I kept hold, pulling up my legs, staying out of the mucler’s reach. It grunted, bounding to the trunk, clumsily making its way up.

Its slow progress gifted a reprieve and allowed me to survey what would be Earth Three. The ground rolled in burps and swells. Lizardish beetles sang, furry eely beasts with wings squawked, and some squid-like creature scurried under the brush. We rocked together, riding a moss ocean that spanned the horizon in an unbroken prairie, a treasure trove upon which my progeny would thrive.

My people had come to the stars to start over and had succeeded once. We’d do so again. We were so much better than the mulcers, the outcast army of an extinct race. They only knew how to hunt and kill.

My enemy scrambled out on the branch, teetering. I kicked at its pus eye. It roared, showering me with malodor and slime. Its hold slipped, but before it fell, it sprang, wrapping its ropey fingers around my neck, squeezing. Gravity added a wallop to our fight, and with a thud we landed, the mucler on top. I dug at its eyelids, biting, spitting. I punched and tore at it’s flesh.

From the sky a chime gonged, gaining in volume until it struck a tone that rendered me motionless. The mulcer, too. We froze in the throes of mutual murder.

Fuzzy tickles plucked at my brain, intruding, shoving their way into my thoughts. My mind received a scrubbing, at least it felt that way. Once I was thoroughly violated, an arc appeared above the mulcer’s slobbering maw, pulsating, flickers sparking through its foamy pink mist.

Two hammering heartbeats passed, and it spoke. “I told Galloway to get rid of you by bringing you to me.” The arc paused, scalding everything between my temples. “Round two of the contest begins. Think why you deserve this world. Winner gets it.”

No way would the mulcer win. Humanity had risen from a better foundation than genocide. Hope thumped, giving me strength, and I recalled all I knew, singing the praises of my illustrious forefathers. Humanity creates civilizations, is highly intelligent, and can think beyond itself. We’ll make the most of this beautiful planet.

I couldn’t hear what the mulcer thought, but seconds later it screamed and jerked as if electrocuted by a billion volts. The puddle that remained of it oozed into the hiccupping land.

My heart rate slowed, and I grinned, preparing to set free the genetic sequences suspended in a sac in my abdomen. The genetic material would use me to sprout and begin mankind anew. Thank you for choosing me.

“Humanity didn’t win. The rolling ground beneath you did. It’s called an Arith.”

I couldn’t form a single thought, at least none I understood.

“A race’s right to survive is not absolute. Humans were ruled for extinction an epoch ago when Earth Two fell. They had their second chance and blew it.”

But…

“Despite the outcome, you’re allowed to stay.”

Me? As the last human? What an honor.

“You’re not human. Your willingness to sacrifice yourself for others earns you a place here if you let me erase your faulty programming and dump the subpar genetic material you carry.”

I couldn’t bear the thought of imprisonment on Galloway again. The arc heard me and shoved my thoughts aside until I lay empty. I drank in all that the Arith was and watched it and the planet mature. Without protest, the mossy thing gave its heart and vitality to the advancement of new life. Nothing could be nobler, no being could ever have higher purpose.

A slender purple creature hatched reminiscent of a salamander with a long neck and limbs. It’s song vibrated my biomechanics into smiles. I asked the Arith to mold me in its image, surrendering my silver body and electronic nodes. Now I could live and die. I had free will, and I had evolved.

***

M. Pax is author of the space adventure series The Backworlds, the urban fantasy series The Rifters, plus other novels and short stories. Fantasy, science fiction, and the weird beckons to her, and she blames Oregon, a source of endless inspiration. She docents at Pine Mountain Observatory in the summers as a star guide, has a cat with a crush on Mr. Spock, and is slightly obsessed with Jane Austen. mpaxauthor.com

.0012 Degrees by Crystal Collier

You are free to choose your actions. You are not free choose the consequence.

Deacon slipped the welding shield over his face and lifted his torch, just enough that the guards would believe he was working on the vessel that would shortly make the trip to earth.

His grandma was born on the moon. His dad was born on the moon. He was born in Luna Maleau, Hyperion district. He lived in earth simulated gravity as a harvester, “farmer” by old earthen terms, until he convinced Rian to trade places.

Deacon didn’t know a thing about welding, but he wasn’t about to say that out loud.

Piston flames burned around him, melting the broken panels into place, but he climbed the ladder into the metal beast’s nose. The fare to earth cost more than all his lunar possessions along with those belonging to his parents and grandparents. Only one family in their colony could afford the trip, and they would be taking the flight in the morning. That’s how he’d made it to the port, crouched down in the back of their Mercedes hover. His back ached from being curled over in the space under the luggage compartment, but he’d made it. That was further than Rian said he’d get.

His boots echoed hollowly in the maintenance hallway, and he glanced over his shoulder. If he got caught, he’d be tossed in the prison for life, but it was worth the risk.

Earth was the place of opportunity. There you could walk through fields of wild grass or misty woods. You could breathe without regulators or fear of filter contamination. You could sleep under the stars and meet wild animals—things that thrived outside of ranches. But the reason he wanted to go there was tucked safely in his back pocket.

Grandpa’s coin collection: Worthless on the moon. A fortune on earth—especially since no one used coins anymore.

They promised his great grandparents their hydroponic research would be invaluable on the moon. They promised his family would be well taken care of. They promised a lot of things. What his family got was a farm comprised of moondust to somehow turn fertile. Every experiment failed, and thus they’d built dirtless farms, but the farms required excessive amounts of water, the next most valuable resource in lunar bargaining. The cost negated any profit that might have been made, and his family had survived by tradingoff harvested plants, barely keeping enough to fill their bellies. He remembered his last birthday when he got a whole melon to himself. It was so sweet, so juicy, but he could only eat a fourth of it. The rest he sliced and dried for this trip.

On earth they never went hungry. On earth they had real opportunities. They could ride a gas-guzzler and pollute the air all they wanted. They could go ten minutes without worrying their harvest would shrivel if not sprayed. They could walk an entire continent rather than the length of their district.

Earth meant freedom.

From the surface he’d transfer funds to his parent’s account to pay for extra water rations. Perhaps he’d even earn enough to fly them down. One day.

The apex panel blinked like a crimson beacon—a flashing red gateway to freedom. Deacon pried the barrier free and ogled the empty space behind. This was it, his cabin for the next three days.

An echo down the hallway…

He slid into the hideaway and pulled the panel back in place.

Footsteps neared.

Keep moving. Keep moving!

They halted in front of his hiding place. His heart dropped. What had he done wrong? Closed a piece of clothing in the gap? Left his torch out in the open? Nope. The torch dangled from his hip and his jumpsuit didn’t pull tight when he shifted backward. Deacon held his breath.

The footsteps resumed. He let out a breath and leaned carefully back into the hovel. It scraped his shoulders, just wide enough to take in a deep breath of air. This was going to be a long trip.

***

The flight engineer handed in his specs, clearing the shuttle for takeoff. Passengers boarded. The preflight checklist was completed. Ten seconds to take-off. Nine. Eight. Seven…

***

Deacon closed his eyes, ignoring the shaking pipes against his back. Soon now. He could almost smell the earthen air or feel a breeze laden with pollens. It was going to be amazing!

Belt locked around the pipes behind him, he squeezed his fists and prayed the leather would hold. 

***

Three. Two. One.

G-force knocked out half the people in the cabin. The pilot scanned his instruments, checking passenger’s vitals and watching the gauges for the right vector of exit. That couldn’t be right. He tapped the display, asked it to refresh, scrolled through the different values. They were veering slightly to the starboard. Was it a trick of the mind?

The readout hadn’t changed. They weren’t going to make their destination with this takeoff. Someone must have left a power tool or supplies on board that hadn’t been calculated into the flight weight.

He swallowed and checked his gauges, running quick calculations on fuel usage with the anomaly. He hoped this would work. With a subtle course correction, he manually overrode the expected course by .0012 of a degree. 

He ran all the calculations again. And again. And again—getting a different result every time. He blinked, eyes bleary from advanced mathematics. It had to be right. Or (in his oxygen-deprived state of mind) close enough. That should work.

The G-force finally took him.

***

Deacon slipped the last dried piece of melon into his mouth and attempted to ignore the pipes bruising his back. The readout on his wrist said they’d been flying for seventy-three hours. He had woken twenty-four hours after takeoff, his neck stiff, his legs shaky. Since then he had dozed in and out, attempting to ignore the growing aches and stiffness. Not long now.

Force buffeted the hull, like slamming into a water tower. Pipes rattled. The shaking intensified. The ship was trying to vibrate his teeth loose! Hissing burst somewhere over his head. More hissing.

Their farm’s pressurized water tank exploded when he was thirteen and shook the entire homestead like the moon was going to collapse in on itself. This was like that.

Creaks. A crack. Beeping.

Deacon gripped the pipes for life, his head whipping from side to side. Darkness, heat, bile…

Light!

Burning light!

He was free.

***

People on the ground marveled at the flaming masses pouring from the sky. Two teenagers making out on Overlook Hill were thrown apart as a chunk of metal slammed into the dirt at their feet, spraying them. The girl wiped dust out of her face as the boy leaned over and exclaimed, “Cool!”

The hollowed out nose of a space shuttle rested in front of them, like a giant cracked egg. In the center sat an open tin, scorched coins spilling out.

Source

That evening, news reports speculated why the moon cruiser failed its return flight. The captain had an outstanding record. The ship model had been the latest and greatest—all green energy and fit to the stripped-down requirements of the government. They chalked it up to mechanical failure, and the religious fanatics called it an act of God.

But it wasn’t an act of God. It was an act of choice.

Crystal Collier may spend too many late nights munching cheese and thinking up bizarre story twists, but she does so to appease the scientists locked in her Floridian basement. *wink wink* (Who else is going to finish building her teleportation device?) She figured she might as well make a dime on all that effort and became an author who pens everything from dark fantasy, historical, and romance tales, to inspirational stories and comedy. She has lived from coast to coast and now occupies the land of sunshine with her creative husband, four littles, and “friend” (a.k.a. the zombie locked in her closet). Secretly, she dreams of world domination and a bottomless supply of cheese. 

Check out more of her midnight meanderings HERE.

Thank the Lucky Stars by Eric Price

I’ve heard it called the final frontier, the sea of tranquility, the great unknown. I call it solitude. Destitute.

I’ve told you in my previous transmissions that I consider myself lucky. When they caught us, they could have killed us. No one would have known. It was a risk we took, Sandra, Max, and myself. And when Adam found us, maybe that was luck too. I don't mean him catching us, of course. But better him than someone else.

I’ve never given you details about what we did or why we did it. By now you’ve probably figured out most of it.

* * * *

Simon flipped off the video recording transmitter (VRT) and rubbed his eyes. He continued to shiver even after his third cup of hot chocolate. He could have drunk plain hot water to warm himself, his taste buds hadn’t reawakened yet, but he needed the calories. The hibernation periods drained him. Now that he had awakened for the final time, he’d need to replenish himself by eating a minimum of 5000 calories a day until he landed on Kapa¹ Ceti VI.

The planet appeared as a small pinprick on the viewing screen. The star itself burned on the left edge. Had all the ship’s sensors not told him he had traveled nearly thirty light years, he’d have believed Kapa¹ Ceti the Earth’s sun.

He walked away from the viewer and the dim yellow light it cast faded from the walls as it powered down. The walls of the ship reilluminated green as the food generator activated with his proximity.

“Hello, Simon.” The epicene voice hadn’t startled him since his first waking period. The fog of sleep still hung in his mind when he had first heard speaking on a space vessel allegedly occupied by a single passenger. When his heart rate slowed, he had felt completely awakened. Now, on his third waking period, he knew to expect the various components of the ship to strike up conversations, even if he didn't feel mentally revived. “What would you like? Another hot chocolate? Perhaps something to eat?”

“Yes. I’ll have lasagna with extra cheese and three pieces of garlic bread.” With a menu limited only by his own imagination, Simon knew he wanted his favorite childhood meal to start his rejuvenation before arriving on the planet. He decided it when the authorities sentenced him. He needed to connect with the life he had before he knew something was different about himself.

“Preparing one meal of lasagna with extra cheese and three pieces of garlic bread.”

The soft, high-pitched whine of the food generators electric motors created a welcome background noise.

While he waited for his meal, he returned to the VRT to record more of his transmission.

* * * *

We infiltrated the compound by walking through the main entrance. I’m serious. It was as easy as that. Sandra had a friend on the inside who printed us employee badges. And they call themselves the Department of Defense? Really?

Everybody knows about the five floors above ground and the two basement levels. They’re great. Seriously. Even the western side, which had to get rebuilt after that hijacked plane flew into it, looks amazing.

I suppose you know about that. The plane I mean. They couldn’t have erased it from the history books. Too many people remember where they were when it happened. I remember. My second grade teacher got called out of the room and returned with tears in her eyes. I didn’t think anything could soften the heart of that old bitch. What did I know?

But back to the building. We didn’t care about the seven floors everyone knew about. Our interests resided somewhere on the third basement floor. I know what you’re thinking. 'There is no third basement.' Yes, it does have a third basement. I’ve seen it. And it’s where you’ll find all the good stuff. Area 51, Roswell, the Kennedy assassination, Bigfoot, Yeti, you name it. If it exists, and the government doesn’t want you to know about it, the information is stored in the third basement.

So the files I wanted to see. The ones I needed to see. The ones about me. Yeah, they’re three floors down. I didn’t know Sandra and Max had connections too. I should have figured it out, but I didn’t.

Most of the stuff I mentioned, the stuff about aliens and hairy monsters, I don’t believe in any of it. Even after seeing the files. What I can tell you is the government keeps files on all of it. I read a few of the files. They didn’t change my opinion. But I didn’t come to read about them. I came to see if what I had heard had any truthful merit to it. Did I exist because of the Cloverleaf Project? And if so, what involvement did I have with it…or it with me.

* * * *

A high pitched series of beeps alerted Simon to his prepared meal. His tastebuds watered as his olfactory receptors started to revive from slumber. He brought the lasagna back to the work station and placed what looked like a wire hat on his head. Two sharp probes tightened against his temples, almost piercing the skin. Simon preferred the VRT, but to ensure he included every detail of his break-in at the Pentagon, he needed to use the memory extractor (ME).

His wife’s face came into focus on the view screen. Even on the day of this image, the final day she would see him as a free man, she had no idea what he had planned. Should he have told her? Probably not. They would have come for her too. Her ignorance kept her free then, and his completion of this mission will ensure she remains free. Or will it? Can he trust the government to uphold their end of the bargain? For all he knew, they had arrested her the second his shuttle launched.

No. They’d have no reason to arrest her. They knew she had nothing to do with any of it. After hooking her to an ME for three days, she didn't have a single private memory left.

He focused his mind. The image of his wife faded. The long wall of the Pentagon replaced it.

* * * *

Two security guards stepped onto the elevator. Simon cast a glance at Max to make sure he kept his composure. Simon thought he looked nervous, but it was hard to tell. Max always looked nervous. Sandra on the other hand, she could handle anything.

The guards only rode down two  floors. When the elevator stopped on the first basement, Simon, Sandra, and Max exited.

Simon pointed to the left. “If we follow this hall, we’ll come to another series of four elevators. We take one back up to the fourth floor where we’ll find a fifth elevator marked ‘Maintenance Only.’ Our badges should open it. It only goes to the second basement. A secret corridor not accessible any other way. A few top secret offices line the hall, and at the end we’ll find a stairway to the third basement. The one that supposedly doesn’t exist. The offices should all be vacant for the weekend.”

They followed the maze and found themselves on a floor clearly not the size of the entire Pentagon. Most of the small offices contained numerous file cabinets and a small desk. The offices had no labeling announcing their contents.

“Well, let’s split up and see what we can find.”

Simon headed into an office and started browsing through the file cabinets. The first had photos of world leaders meeting with aliens and transcripts of their conversations. He randomly selected one and started reading before tossing it aside to focus on his objective. The next cabinet had photos, transcripts of eyewitness accounts, and hair samples of tall, apelike men. He didn’t even bother reading these before moving on to the next file cabinet.

“Third time’s a charm.”

The first folder had a tab reading Cloverleaf Project. The cover had an image of a four leaf clover. Each leaf had a different word written on it: Strength, Agility, Intelligence, Luck. The first sheet in the folder read:

CLOVERLEAF PROJECT

Overview

In an attempt to create the perfect human, top geneticists from around the world will collaborate to create a genetically superior human. They will combine DNA from human subjects with extraordinary qualities in at least one of the following characteristics: strength, agility, and intelligence. The experiment will also take DNA from individuals with seemingly unnatural luck to answer the questions: Does luck exist? And if so, can it pass through genes?

The first batch will consist of six artificially created zygotes (three male and three female) implanted into female volunteers all deemed unable to conceive naturally. As an added precaution, the test subjects, once mature, will be sterile. This will serve two purposes. First, it will prevent the artificial genes from contaminating the normal human gene pool. Second, many of the geneticists fear if two of our test subjects were to reproduce, it may create an F₁ hybrid superhuman.

Tuesday, March 17, 1992

Simon riffled through the pages to find extensive notes on the process, the specific genes isolated, and prenatal care given to the expectant mothers. Finally he found the page he wanted. A list of birth records. Just as he expected, he found his own name, date of birth, and his mother’s name. He read the remainder of the names.

“No.”

He staggered backward and sat in an office chair. It almost rolled out from under him, but he grabbed the arm and secured it. He read the names again.

“No!”

His head spun. Flashes of his life danced before his eyes. Images of his childhood. College. He knew them all. He always had. He couldn’t remember a time without them. He read the names again, first to himself, then aloud.

“Sandra. Max. Julie. Adam. No. No. Not her too.” He read the last name ten times. Fifteen. Twenty. “Not Susan. Not my wife.”

He flipped back to the overview and reread the last paragraph. How they had wanted children. How they had tried. For how many years? Seven? Nine?

Sandra burst into the office.

“I thought I heard you scream.”

He looked at her through eyes glassed over with tears.

Max came to Sandra’s side and she pushed on. “What is it Simon? Did you find what we came for? Are you part of Cloverleaf Project?

Simon couldn’t speak. He reached across the desk and handed the list of births to Sandra.

Sandra took the list, read it, and handed it to Max.

Max read the list and threw it to the ground.

“We’ve got to go. Now.”

The alarm in his voice instantly sobered Simon. “What? Why?” But as he asked, he sprang to his feet.

“I may have blown everything. I told Adam you suspected you had involvement with the Cloverleaf Project.”

“So? You didn’t tell him our plan, did you? You didn’t tell him we planned on breaking in here?”

“No. But I didn’t have to. He just knows things. He always has had a way of just knowing.”

They bolted for the door. Simon jerked it open. A flash of silver and Simon felt the barrel of a gun press against his head. His instincts wanted to snatch the gun in a swift movement. He knew he could, but his eyes focused down the hall at the fifteen other guns pointed at them. A tall, muscular man with dark hair stepped forward.

“I hope you found what you came for, Simon.”

“Adam, listen, this concerns you too.”

A single laugh escaped Adam’s throat. “I know. I’ve seen all the files. They showed them to me when I took the job. Sure, my badge says ‘Pentagon Security,’ but I’ve only had one objective: protect these files from anyone else involved with Cloverleaf Project. We weren’t the only batch of super babies, you know. The project ran for ten years. Eventually someone would learn they may have been a part of it and want in here.”

Adam gestured toward the stairway. “Come along, now, we have a special new punishment lined up to try on you three.”

* * * *

Simon removed the ME and rubbed his temples. He placed his plate, utensils, and napkin back into the food generator.

“Recycling initiated,” said the not-quite-human voice.

The low hum of the engines started again, and he returned to the VRT.

* * * *

So we received our sentence. Sandra, Max, and myself each got sent different directions in space. Three pioneers to the three closest planets potentially habitable by humans. I have no idea how much of this you already know. I didn’t say anything in my previous transmissions. I knew the government would screen them. You’d have never seen them… Or at the least you wouldn’t get them in their entirety. My only hope for you to hear this one is if Julie still works for the department. This is the last message I can send you. I only have one transmission beacon left, and it has to contain information about the planet I land on. If I fail to send it, the government will come for you.

If I calculated correctly, and if the ship’s sensors are accurate, which I’m sure they are—I designed them myself—you should be about 30 years old now. It’s challenging to conceive, even for me, since I’m not much older than that myself. But by traveling nearly the speed of light, my ageing doesn’t progress like yours.

I’ve spent my time between hibernation periods pondering my decisions. Did I do the right thing? Was it worth it? I think I did. And it was. I only learned of your existence the day they sent me into space. By all accounts, you shouldn’t exist. I guess we really were lucky. My only regret is that I’ll never get to meet you.

Love,

Dad

To be continued… April 17

Dedicated to Leonard Nimoy (1931-2015), without whom, modern science fiction would likely not exist.

****

Eric Price lives with his wife and two sons in northwest Iowa. He began publishing in 2008 when he started writing a quarterly column for a local newspaper. Later that same year he published his first work of fiction, a spooky children’s story called Ghost Bed and Ghoul Breakfast. Since then, he has written stories for children, young adults, and adults. Three of his science fiction stories have won honorable mention from the CrossTime Annual Science Fiction Contest. His first YA fantasy novel, Unveiling the Wizards’ Shroud, received the Children’s Literary Classics Seal of Approval and the Literary Classics Award for Best First Novel. His second novel, The Squire and the Slave Master, continues the Saga of the Wizards. It is scheduled for an August 4, 2015 release. Find him online at authorericprice.com, Twitter, Facebook, and Goodreads.