I AM SIRIUS by Crystal Collier

My feet touch down on the ground, and I’m grateful for the solid earth. I glance back to the sky, the heavenly beacon I’ve left shining in my absence—a guide to my place in the great black once my month-long sojourn on earth ends. But for now, I’m free.

And there’s only one place I want to go.

I’ve had so many names through the centuries: Yoonir, Sigu Tolo, Tishtrya, An-Nahm, Tianlang, Tenro, and Canicula, but my favorite is Sirius—Sir if I don’t like you. Rius if I do.

Tonight I’m in a Rius mood. And who could blame me? After eleven months in the black heart of nowhere, I’m ready to break out a keg and party like it’s the end of time. Instead I’ll go around making plants wilt, weakening men, and my personal favorite, turning on the ladies. It’s my animal magnetism, which is ironic considering how many people associate my name with a dog.

A dog.

Loyal, fierce, blood-thirsty. Everything I’m not. Everything the goddess Ishtar wanted me to be.

I breathe in the pollen-laden wind, the scent of ripe corn and hay filling me with nostalgia. The satisfaction of a bounteous harvest after months of work. Good, honest work. The kind I miss followed by festivals and partying late into the night. I’m definitely primed for the partying, but there’s one thing I have to do first.

The “stars” holding my place wink down at me: Don’t be gone too long.

I give them the finger. “Go burn yourself. I’m never coming back.” I say that every year, and every year I’m sucked back into that hole of an existence by the invisible leash I feel even now tethered to my immortal heart. There is no such thing as true freedom. But if I could, I would escape.

According to mythology, I am a star, a whole collection of stars, a constellation. I don’t believe in mythology.

My soles scuff across asphalt, a wide black path leading me home. The night is quiet, except for the chirp of insects. The houses I pass are silent. Their windows are giant glassy eyes witnessing my sober ascent before the fun can begin: A man condemned to light the sky for eternity after offending a lesser god by passing her up for his wife. A man who cared about crops more than making eyes at pretty, petty things.

Ishtar, called me a dog. You know what they say about a woman scorned—especially one who presides over war? She thought she had me trapped, stuck out there in the black and all to herself, but I’m a resourceful guy. Nine centuries in, I found myself an ambrosia blade and slit her throat.

One celestial war later, I was back behind bars. But, as it turns out, the big guy up there really didn’t like his bratty little goddess, so he granted me one month off every year.

Source

Wind whistles between the metal bars guarding the cemetery. A gentle shove and the gates swing wide, admitting me into a sea of mausoleums and floral bouquets. Plants shrivel as I pass. It’s why I never bring flowers, though I would if I could. A whole field of them. Petunias and daffodils, forget-me-nots and daisies—all her favorites.

The tombs shrink in grandeur and grow older as I progress, until I’m standing before a little hill, a single white pinnacle beckoning me.

I take a deep breath, exhale, and move.

Nineteen hundred years. So much can change in nineteen hundred years. I’ve rebuilt her grave once every century since winning my freedom, and although the land has altered much in that time, her place is always the same. Wind and wear have smoothed the carved flowers on her stone to indistinct bumps, but the symbol of her name remains—the half crescent with underlining squiggles. My moon over the sea.

My fingers graze the weathered stone.

Rhea took a boy who flirted with anything (including goddesses, much to my detriment,) and turned him into a respected man, a pillar of the community. And then she paid for it with her life.

I kiss my fingers and press them to the faded stone flowers. “Sleep peacefully, my kuvalya.” My waterlily.

The issue with living forever is that I won’t see her again. Not in this life, not in the next. Never have the chance to hold her, to apologize, to promise she lives in my heart always and that I have no regrets. Except I do have one.

That our life together was cut short. Because of me. Which is why I’m going to get drunk out of my gourd and spend the next thirty days not caring about anything but becoming oblivious.

A dog whistle pierces my ears. Its pitch pulsates down my spine, resonating with the marrow in my bones, synchronizing with the vibration of my very atoms. I drop to all fours. My muscles lock. I twitch to break free, but it’s useless.

“Hey dog boy,” a sultry voice grazes the back of my ear.

My fingers dig into the dirt, aching to turn on the voice and demolish its source. She shouldn’t be here. She’s dead, and yet I know that voice from the heart of my cold nightmares. “You’re not real,” I hiss though a locked jaw.

She circles me, translucent skirt revealing the length of her legs. I glare at the ground.

“Oh, I’m very much real, and very much in the mood for vengeance.” Her final word lingers like the jangle of a rattlesnake, pulling my gaze to the source of danger—ultra-white teeth between crimson lips.

I look back at the grave before me. She had her vengeance ages ago, along with my desire to live. “How are you here, Ishtar?”

She sits on my Rhea’s gravestone, crimson nails curling over olive skin as she crosses her arms. A curtain of ebony hair silhouettes her shapely form, emphasizing the smallness of her bustier and width of exposed bosoms. She leans forward to give me a better view. “I thought you believed in reincarnation, dog boy.”

Any man would find this she-demon irresistible. Any man but me. I roll my eyes and focus on a tree in my periphery.

“Every thousand years I am born again in mortal form.” Her voice is like ink, dripping in my ear, drowning my brain.

“How wonderful for you,” I mutter, and then the last two words sink in: mortal form. She’s mortal. She’s vulnerable.

If I could break free from this paralysis…

She laughs. “Soon I will ascend to my place on high.” She points to the heavens. “I wanted you to know before I leave that your efforts to end me were futile. Oh, and your brother’s bloodline, the people you check up on year after year? They are going to die. Very soon. All of them.”

Rage surges through me. It pounds in my head like a drum, calling for strength, tremoring down to my toes. Though my body no longer possess blood, the immortal substance that fills my veins burns like magma, igniting my being.

“And this?” Ishtar pats Rhea’s headstone, “This will be crushed and the entire plot of earth turned into a cesspool.”

My fists are locked. Something cracks inside me, like my veins have broken open and leaked the inferno pulsing through me. Fire throbs from my knuckles into my core, barely contained by my skin. It simmers, liquidifying everything inside me, eating away my organs and replacing them with molten fury. The essence of a star.

“And the best part?” Ishtar lifts a hand to the sky, cupping the light that holds my place. “You will watch me do it, powerless to stop me like the leashed dog you are.”

Ishtar is fixated on my place in the sky, oblivious to the transformation occurring right in front of her. I am burning. My skin crackles and I release the last stands of restraint. I will never, NEVER let her harm another innocent. She will not enslave another person so long as I live. This. Ends. Now.

I growl and blinding light breaks through my skin. The grass beneath me shrivels and blackens, turning to dust. Cold heat rips free and I scream, exploding into a billion pieces. The night is nothing but light, freedom, and consuming wrath.

I am a star.

***

I wake to the dawn, the sun barely free of the horizon. With a gasp, I feel my arms, solid and human. I sigh in relief.

Blackened earth stretches out around me, all except for a star shape circling Rhea’s grave. A sliver of crimson fingernail remains on the stone, singed across the top as if burned free by a blow torch.

Ishtar is dead. For now.

Another thousand years and she’ll be back, as conniving and vicious as ever. And I’ll be here, waiting for her, ready to hunt her down like the dog she claims I am.

I am Sirius.

Crystal Collier is a young adult author who pens dark fantasy, historical, and romance hybrids. She can be found practicing her brother-induced ninja skills while teaching children or madly typing about fantastic and impossible creatures. She has lived from coast to coast and now calls Florida home 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. You can find her on her 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.