| "Incident On Rygel IX" (the seventeenth ACW monthly writing contest) |
Assignment: Write a story or poem using the following title: "Incident On Rygel IX" 2500 words or less. Deadline: Midnight (EST), January 15, 2003 |
| Incident On Rygel IX by topcat@spiritone.com (Entry #1) |
| ~Winning Entry~ |
| The big 4-0 was looming menacingly
in front of him. A week from today, Jon Davis would be crossing the great
divide into 'life begins at 40'. Yeah, right. That was one reason he was going
out tonight with a young girl from the office to a new nightclub down in the
warehouse district. He may have been 39 but he kept himself in shape and was
often mistaken for a person in their 20's. He had been talking with Angela from
Shipping about music and had gotten himself invited out to see some new bands.
It was about time he caught up with the lastest music scene, he reasoned, and
hang out with some young fillies like back in the old days. Too many nights
nowdays were spent home watching VH-I or listening to the punk songs of his
youth, albeit the greatest music era ever - the early 80's. Talking Heads, the
Cars, David Bowie, the B 52's, Warren Zevon, Elvis Costello, the Police, Cheap
Trick, Blondie. Now there were some kick ass bands. It was a brisk autumn Saturday night, and he had worn his black jeans and black leather jacket in an effort to be in and inconspicuous. He met Angela and her friends in front of the club as he nervously surveyed the array of pink, purple, and orange hair, tight shabby clothing, tattoos, and jewelry piercings in places that had to hurt. "Hi, Jon" chirped Angela. "This is Scarmaker and Toy Box." "'Sup dude. I see you know Closet." "Nice to meet you, uh, guys" He asked her quietly, "What's with the names?" "Oh we don't use real names here and I don't even know what theirs are. Scarmaker once knifed a guy's face in a fight and Toy Box, well she's real short and has had a lot of boyfriends. They call me Closet 'cause when I meet a guy like at a party or something, I take 'em into a closet." This caused a painful stirring in his tight jeans as he had always lusted after Angela, er, Closet, which was one big reason he was here tonight in this scuzzy dive. Her big hooters were half falling out of her low cut top and she was now even more animated and sexy than she ever was at work. Toy Box was similarly dressed like a Hollywood hooker and Scarmaker seemed painted into his leathers, topped by a spiked mohawk. Looking at the poster on the door, he could see they were about to be treated to the melodious mellow musings of garage bands like Screaming Monkey Pus, Running With Scissors, Manhole, and Rat Vomit. As they stepped, or rather sidled into the crowded club, the noise (he couldn't call it music) was deafening. It sounded like crazed gorillas with jackhammers on a tin roof. He was already regretting that he had come and was quite ready to bail out on this foolish idea of somehow regaining his lost youth. The kids could have this club and welcome to it. Maybe just one drink to be polite, make some excuse, and get the hell out of there, back home to his tv to watch Al Gore on Saturday Night Live. Maybe he could ask Angela out on a real date next week, one on one (or in a closet!). Scarmaker was passing out some pills to the girls and offered him one. "What is it?" he yelled over the hideous cacophany. "Rygel IX, dude. Better than Ecstasy." "Thanks, but no thanks." He had smoked weed and sniffed a little coke in his college days but wasn't about to try the heavy stuff the kids were doing nowdays. What he couldn't hear, unfortunately, was the whisper behind him, 'slip it in his drink.' The scene did strike a familiar chord to Jon. Kids dancing, blinking colored lights, drinks being guzzled, people having to yell in each others ears to be heard. The music, clothing, and faces might have changed but the scene was pretty much as he remembered it. He figured maybe one quick dance with "Closet" and he could get out of there. They pushed their way onto the dance floor and began gyrating and jumping about. He brushed up against her often enough to make him feel that the whole trip down here had been worth it. Then all of a sudden his world began to change. Melting, swirling, phantasmagoric otherworld, dripping, sweating, swaying, colors blending. Screeeech slang whang aaaahyeeeeeeah chunk chunk grrzzzz yip yip yip uh uh uh uh the beat; heart drums temples bass, the beat beat beat beat beat boom crash boom slash ooooooooaaaaaaaeeeeeeeiiiiiiiiii bbbuzzzzzippp spinning, squeezing, sinking, falling, shoes scraping, dragging, bumping, retching, curbside cool outside. More familiar? Not. Cars, undulating boulders, buildings, immense ominous, people upside down feet to head, head throbbing gibbering crazy dead cackling insane alive different, grrrahahahhhhhh, please make it all END!!! oh god god - what's the matter with him? Tripping - Rygel IX Jon Davis awoke early the next morning curled up on the lawn of his apartment building, his leather jacket and shirt missing, a terrible dryness in his throat, and a hot throbbing headache. He stumbled into his room and trickled into the bathroom where he drank a quart of water right out of the tap and peered glassy eyed into the mirror as a horrible awareness slowly overcame him. There on his forehead he saw the cause of his headache, a crude tattoo that said Rygel IX. He screamed. |
| Incident On Rygel IX by H.J. Lazarus lazdom@ono.com (Entry #4) |
| ~Runner Up~ |
| Brizzle looked out on the green haze
as the morning’s first sunrise kissed the horizon. Gone were previous
night’s stormy purple clouds that had covered the land with a shwab so
thick not a moon could be seen. He rubbed his head and prepared his mount. He
and the neighbor boy were riding out to check on the herd; he’d probably
lost of few of them, those creatures got so skittish in a storm who knew where
they might have ended up by now. Brizzle sighted Frack’s lean figure in the distance riding like the wind. He smiled to himself, feeling for one slight moment the rush of youth through his own weary frame. "Hey there Brizzle!" "Ready for a ride, Frack? Probably going to have to round some them up as far as the craters today." Frack slapped his mount, "Sure thing. You’re not getting too old to round up a couple of scared heads, are ya Brizzle?" "Not at all, boy. Was just worried you might not be able to spend all morning eating my dust." Brizzle shouted and shot off in the direction of the herd. With a whoop Frack was close behind, the two quickly disappearing in the ocher mist. "Rygel IX passing station, may I help you?" Jannel’s smooth voice came across as understanding and yet in control. Ten years working at the passing station she’d perfected it; the voice at the other end could be someone suffering great personal loss, someone just pricing around, or some freak playing a sick joke. She’d heard it all, or so she’d thought. "Yes, may I speak to Glenden?" "He won’t be in for a while yet. Can I take a message?" "Oh, well," the voice paused. "I am calling from the passing station on the base. I have a special order I’d like to place." "Oh that’s no problem, I do all the ordering. What would you like?" "No, I need to consult with Glenden first. When did you say he would be in?" "It shouldn’t be too long now. Would you like him to call you back?" "No, that’s not necessary. I’ll get in touch with him myself." It wasn’t until Jannel heard the click that she realized she hadn’t got his name. First time in ten years. Frack and Brizzle had been riding for over an hour before they found the first one, tangled in the swamp bloot and sinking a bit more each time it struggled. It took them the better part of the next hour to get the poor creature out and cleaned up enough to lead it back to the herd. By now all four suns were pounding hard on the flatlands and traveling was slow going. They decided to check up north a bit; with any luck they’d find some of the herd and still be able to catch the secondary eclipse and take a well deserved break in the shade, drinking a couple of sklogs Brizzle had in his pack. They’d been riding for about half an hour when Frack pointed towards the horizon, "What’s that, Brizzle?" Brizzle squinted against the harsh light, "I don’t see nothing." "You old man," Frack joked, "don’t you see something shiny way up over there?" Brizzle followed the boy’s gaze and did indeed see something shining silver-white in the hot sun, "Let’s go take a look." As they rode closer, they saw more points gleaming, hundreds of them spreading far over the flatlands. They were pieces of some strange metal debris. Further to the north there was a shallow trench scorched into the ground. "That’s gotta be a good five hundred blots long," Frack said, rubbing his moist neck, "what coulda made something like that?" Brizzle jumped down without answering and moved towards a piece of metal embedded in the ground. He gave it a sharp kick. "Damn!" he muttered, wincing slightly, "That’s pretty tough for such a thin little piece of nothing." Frack reached down and pulled the piece out of the ground. It had been embedded about halfway down. He struggled to bend it, slammed it against the ground to see if he could break it, "This thing won’t bust." He then smiled mischievously, "but it might burn!" Frack took out his Zazzo and tried to melt the metal. "Come on, Frack. It’s been out here on the flatlands at least all day. If that hasn’t fried it, nothing will." Brizzle took the piece from Frack and inspected it carefully, "Look here. It’s got some kinda crazy writing or pictures on it," he passed it back to the boy, "You go to school, know what all that is?" Frack stared at the incomprehensible script, "No. But maybe my mom does. Let’s get a couple of pieces and bring it back. Stuff don’t weigh nothing anyways." "Now look who sounds like an old man," Brizzle joked, hoping the boy wouldn’t notice the worry in his voice, "Let’s go." "Glenden here. How can I help you?" "I’m here at the base, and we’d like to make a special order. I need some passing crates…" "That should be no problem…" "Well, we would need some smaller ones, infant size, really. But they would have to be puffer-sealed," "I assure you all of our line is puffer-sealed. ‘From sealed to eternity’ is our motto" "Well, that’s what I wanted to ask you about. In this case there has been some deterioration, they were, eh, exposed to the elements for a couple of days. Would the puffer-seal keep them intact, with no contamination to the tissue?" "Contamination?" Glenden repeated, not quite understanding the point, but responded nonetheless with his product pitch, "Of course. Same as the day of passing. If you could just give me the exact dimensions, I could have the crates on the base this evening." Glenden jotted down the numbers and promised to have everything ready. He looked quizzically at the odd dimensions before shouting, "Jannel? We’ve got work to do, on the double," then added, "You’re not going to believe this!" "Well that is mighty strange," Frack’s mother said, turning the rod around in her hands to examine it closely. "Can’t say I’ve ever seen anything like that before." "And there’s hundreds of them out there," Frack added excitedly, "What do you think it is?" Brizzle exchanged a quick look with Frack’s parents, "I don’t know," he paused. "Bet I know somebody who does," Frack’s father said, "Seems Rosonda from the Rygel IX Register’s been asking all kinds of questions in town." "Rosonda?" Brizzle echoed, a yellow tinge burning into his cheeks. "Of course your remember Rosonda, Brizzle," Frack’s mother teased gently, "You two go way back." "Frack’s father winked at his wife before continuing, "Woodwim and his father say they saw something bright shooting across the sky the other night. They figure it must have hit the ground somewhere round these parts. They were going to ride out and see if they could find it just as soon as they brought the kweedle harvest in..." "…and Rosonda got wind of it and is snooping around?" Brizzle finished for his friend, then laughed, "Well, if there’s one woman who’ll get to the truth, it’s Ros. Ain’t nothing that could stop her once she sets her noses to something." "You wanna come out and see the stuff, Dad?" Frack asked eagerly. "Sure thing. Let’s go." "Excuse me," the officer said flatly, "this is a restricted zone." "This is my land," Brizzle answered shortly, "I can’t go on my own land?" "Just until the clean-up is finished. There might be contamination," the officer lowered his voice, "it’s for your own protection." "Protection from what, exactly?" Frack’s father asked. "I’m not allowed to answer that at this moment." "You want to call over whoever might be able to answer that?" Brizzle responded angrily. "All my superiors are involved in the investigation at the moment. If I could take down your name, we will send an information officer over as soon as possible." "Don’t waste your time," Brizzle spat back, pulling his mount, "or mine, for that matter." and the three rode off. "State your business." "I’m from the Rygel IX passing station," Glenden said nervously, "I’ve got a special order here." The officer consulted his notes and buzzed Glenden through the heavily guarded gate. "Once you’re in the building, it’s the third door on the left." Glenden pushed his cart with the passing crates through the front gate and down the path into the building. He was about to go in the third door when he heard a voice, "Glenden?" He turned and saw a young woman he had done his training course with, "Sidle? Is that you? Hey, it’s great to see you!" "What are you doing here?" "Just dropping off a special order," he said, nodding towards the cart. "Is it for THEM?" her voice suddenly conspiratorial. "Them?" "Haven’t you heard? They brought in some, er, bodies the other night. ALIEN bodies." "Aliens?" Glenden repeated, unable to believe what he was hearing. "I saw them myself. Really gross. They’ve only got two arms and two legs. And they’ve got these really little heads with tiny eyes." She shuddered slightly. "But where did they…." "Hey, you two!" an exceedingly large officer barked from down the hallway. He moved quickly towards them and grasped Sidle firmly, "You are coming with me," and with an icy stare added, "and you go about your business and get out of here," before dragging a squirming Sidle off. "Yes sir," Glenden murmured to himself and pushed his cart through the third door. "I can’t believe they won’t let you onto your own land," Frack’s father complained as they entered the house, "Who do they think they are?" As soon as he saw his wife’s face he knew something was wrong, "Hon?" Her shaking hands belied her steady tone, "As soon as you all left, some officers showed up. They said they were from the base, and came to pick up the metal." "They confiscated it? Right out of our own home?" She nodded, "They said it might be contaminated," her voice started to tremble, "They said it was for our…" "…own good," Brizzle finished for her, "Yeah, we got the same story. They’re going to clean up this place good and tight. Make sure none of us can prove we saw anything." "But that’s not fair," Frack protested, "We saw it. It was real." Brizzle had a thought, "Didn’t Woodwim and his dad see something the other night? We could ride into town and hear their story. If there’s enough of us who’d seen something, they won’t be able to shut us all up." Frack brightened up, "Let’s go!" The local eatery was doing a brisk business, waitresses rushing from table to table. The three decided to sit at the bar. "You think Woodwim will show up here?" Frack asked, sipping his sklog carefully. "He usually has dinner here. Maybe we’ll get lucky." "You’re wasting your time," a weary voice came from the table behind them. The three turned to see young Glenden from the passing station slumped over, obviously already four or five sklogs to the wind. "Glenden?" Brizzle asked slowly, "You know where Woodwin is?" "Nope." he said sadly. The men exchanged a confused look. Glenden shook his head before adding, "Nobody does now." Frack’s father looked sharply, "What you saying, Glenden? You’re talking crazy." "No, I’m not. The Woodwin’s are gone. Just like Sidle. Probably like a lot of us." "Gone?" With a sigh Glenden sat up and looked directly at Brizzle. Three of his eyes were bruised bright white, and a drip of dark yellow blood had dried from under a nose. "You’re here about THEM, aren’t you? Well if you’re smart, you’ll just keep quiet about it. The base is making sure we’re all very quiet about it," he took another swig from his glass, "Sidle saw them, and who knows where she is now. The Woodwin’s saw them, but since Woodwin works on the base, he’s suddenly had an emergency transfer. At least that’s the official story," Glenden swallowed the dregs from his glass, "you can see I was given the ‘unoffical’ version." "And we’d found some stuff and brought it back to our house and they came and took it away," Frack added quickly, "they won’t even let Brizzle onto his land where we found the stuff." Glenden waved his hands in the air helplessly, "See? Amazing how easy it was to shut up the folks at Rygel IX." Brizzle hung his head, "And now if we say anything about what we saw we’re going to sound like a bunch of crazy granks from the flatlands. Always seeing something there ain’t." He lifted his head to see a figure in the doorway. He knew those curves like the fur on his hands. "Hey there Brizzle. Good to see you" "Hi there, Rosonda," he answered, fighting the slight rush he felt as she came closer. Ros was a dangerous combination, a woman with a hard head and a soft body. "Guess you know what we’re all on about." "Sure do," she answered, "I’m just surprised none of you are willing to fight this thing." The truth stung. Brizzle answered defensively, "Well what you expect us to fight with? We’ve got no proof of anything, and…" Brizzle’s voice was drowned out by the TV at the bar, "…The military base at Rygel IX is carrying out a massive clean-up operation after failed weatherprobe testing caused one of the probes to crash to the ground, not far from some neighboring farms. The project, originally meant to be confidential, has been made public to assuage the fears of several residents in the area, who thought the accident and the resulting debris were the work of an alien invasion. The military regret this unfortunate incident, but in a few hours residents will be able to resume their normal activities …" "Isn’t that just perfect, just an ‘unfortunate incident’" Glenden spat, holding up his hand for another sklog. "Well, I’m not just going to sit here and let them get away with it," Rosanda said angrily, "Mark my words, one day the name of Rygel IX will be synonymous with the greatest military cover-up ever," And stormed out. Glenden watched her leave, then added, "I doubt that greatly." Brizzle smiled a bit, "Well if anyone can dig up the facts, it’s Rosanda. Give her some room. She won’t stop till the truth is known. It might take her years, but she’ll do it." Frack smiled skeptically, "I think the name of Rygel IX is going to be associated with the biggest bunch of crazies and space freaks, no matter what she uncovers," then taking another swig of his sklog said, "But I could be wrong. I mean, You know Ros well." |
Here are all the entries, posted in the order they were received.
| Incident On Rygel IX by topcat@spiritone.com |
#1 of 14 Winner |
| 921 words | |
| The big 4-0 was looming menacingly in front of him. A
week from today, Jon Davis would be crossing the great divide into 'life begins
at 40'. Yeah, right. That was one reason he was going out tonight with a young
girl from the office to a new nightclub down in the warehouse district. He may
have been 39 but he kept himself in shape and was often mistaken for a person
in their 20's. He had been talking with Angela from Shipping about music and
had gotten himself invited out to see some new bands. It was about time he
caught up with the lastest music scene, he reasoned, and hang out with some
young fillies like back in the old days. Too many nights nowdays were spent
home watching VH-I or listening to the punk songs of his youth, albeit the
greatest music era ever - the early 80's. Talking Heads, the Cars, David Bowie,
the B 52's, Warren Zevon, Elvis Costello, the Police, Cheap Trick, Blondie. Now
there were some kick ass bands. It was a brisk autumn Saturday night, and he had worn his black jeans and black leather jacket in an effort to be in and inconspicuous. He met Angela and her friends in front of the club as he nervously surveyed the array of pink, purple, and orange hair, tight shabby clothing, tattoos, and jewelry piercings in places that had to hurt. "Hi, Jon" chirped Angela. "This is Scarmaker and Toy Box." "'Sup dude. I see you know Closet." "Nice to meet you, uh, guys" He asked her quietly, "What's with the names?" "Oh we don't use real names here and I don't even know what theirs are. Scarmaker once knifed a guy's face in a fight and Toy Box, well she's real short and has had a lot of boyfriends. They call me Closet 'cause when I meet a guy like at a party or something, I take 'em into a closet." This caused a painful stirring in his tight jeans as he had always lusted after Angela, er, Closet, which was one big reason he was here tonight in this scuzzy dive. Her big hooters were half falling out of her low cut top and she was now even more animated and sexy than she ever was at work. Toy Box was similarly dressed like a Hollywood hooker and Scarmaker seemed painted into his leathers, topped by a spiked mohawk. Looking at the poster on the door, he could see they were about to be treated to the melodious mellow musings of garage bands like Screaming Monkey Pus, Running With Scissors, Manhole, and Rat Vomit. As they stepped, or rather sidled into the crowded club, the noise (he couldn't call it music) was deafening. It sounded like crazed gorillas with jackhammers on a tin roof. He was already regretting that he had come and was quite ready to bail out on this foolish idea of somehow regaining his lost youth. The kids could have this club and welcome to it. Maybe just one drink to be polite, make some excuse, and get the hell out of there, back home to his tv to watch Al Gore on Saturday Night Live. Maybe he could ask Angela out on a real date next week, one on one (or in a closet!). Scarmaker was passing out some pills to the girls and offered him one. "What is it?" he yelled over the hideous cacophany. "Rygel IX, dude. Better than Ecstasy." "Thanks, but no thanks." He had smoked weed and sniffed a little coke in his college days but wasn't about to try the heavy stuff the kids were doing nowdays. What he couldn't hear, unfortunately, was the whisper behind him, 'slip it in his drink.' The scene did strike a familiar chord to Jon. Kids dancing, blinking colored lights, drinks being guzzled, people having to yell in each others ears to be heard. The music, clothing, and faces might have changed but the scene was pretty much as he remembered it. He figured maybe one quick dance with "Closet" and he could get out of there. They pushed their way onto the dance floor and began gyrating and jumping about. He brushed up against her often enough to make him feel that the whole trip down here had been worth it. Then all of a sudden his world began to change. Melting, swirling, phantasmagoric otherworld, dripping, sweating, swaying, colors blending. Screeeech slang whang aaaahyeeeeeeah chunk chunk grrzzzz yip yip yip uh uh uh uh the beat; heart drums temples bass, the beat beat beat beat beat boom crash boom slash ooooooooaaaaaaaeeeeeeeiiiiiiiiii bbbuzzzzzippp spinning, squeezing, sinking, falling, shoes scraping, dragging, bumping, retching, curbside cool outside. More familiar? Not. Cars, undulating boulders, buildings, immense ominous, people upside down feet to head, head throbbing gibbering crazy dead cackling insane alive different, grrrahahahhhhhh, please make it all END!!! oh god god - what's the matter with him? Tripping - Rygel IX Jon Davis awoke early the next morning curled up on the lawn of his apartment building, his leather jacket and shirt missing, a terrible dryness in his throat, and a hot throbbing headache. He stumbled into his room and trickled into the bathroom where he drank a quart of water right out of the tap and peered glassy eyed into the mirror as a horrible awareness slowly overcame him. There on his forehead he saw the cause of his headache, a crude tattoo that said Rygel IX. He screamed. |
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| Incident On Rygel IX by Sophia Barkat quietpoly@yahoo.com |
#2 of 14 |
| 819 words | |
| Eight days and eight nights. Dragons flew above them
but they do not dare scream. It had been a backbreaking trek through the
dangerous canyons, but there was no other road. 'Please don't turn me in,' Milo fell on his knees, begging to his captor. 'I never meant for it to kill her, but I just did,' he groveled, always checking to see if the dragons had not heard him. 'That's not for me to decide,' Pasparon looked down on the ground, smoking his pipe. It was cold and foggy, but he had risked it all to find this man who had been on the run for a month now. 'I don't know what became of me that night when I came home,' wept Milo. 'The house was as it always was, when I walked in. And I had the same smile on my face when I walked into our room.' 'You shouldn't tell me anything,' Pasparon sat down underneath their camouflaged tent. 'There are rules I have to follow.' 'But, you must help me. I am innocent. How was I to know she had been seeing someone?' Milo begged tugging on the rope that bound them together on this sharp cliff. Pasparon sighed. 'I a-a-a-a-m helping you,' he grunted, pulling out the can of food he had saved for the trip. The salt cured fish that his wife had prepared was wonderful. How he longed to return to her now. 'It's a tragedy! A tragedy! Two lives thrown into hell because of one mistake!' Milo complained as loud as his fear permitted. 'Don't raise your voice!' Pasparon sat up to slap him, but stopped seeing how he had frightened the man. Milo had been driving him crazy all week nagging like a weakling, claiming he was a victim of circumstance, and that his spotless past should vouch for his true nature. 'Murder is murder,' he said instead, pulling away. 'It's no so much murder than a lack of judgement,' Milo wept, shaking his head. 'Lack of judgement?' Pasparon jumped on him throwing the man to the ground. 'Your wife is dead and you call that lack of judgement?' 'There is no way I can explain this,' the man shook in fear, surprised by the attack. It had been like this a week ago that he had gone hunting for some game in the woods when this large bearded man had jumped upon him, wrestling him to the ground. 'So you killed her?' Pasparon panted, peering through the side of the tent to see where the gigantic flying bird was. 'I wanted to love her not kill her,' the man protested, fighting to let loose the rope around his wrist. 'Not when I reached the door, not until I turned the knob of the bedroom and saw...' Milo's voice trailed off into a sob. 'I saw...' Pasparon released the man on the ground. 'Never mind. I don't want to hear anything,' he rolled Milo over, as he rose to his feet. The rope had left red cuts around both their hands, and it hurt like mad. Sometimes he stopped to administer some aloe on it, though that was also running out. 'I'm sorry,' Milo rose to his feet, as his captor handed him the last leaf. 'You should have it, really,' he returned it just as fast. 'No. I don't need it,' Pasparon mumbled, pushing Milo's hand away. 'You should take it. You deserve it...' the man began to nag all over again. 'Okay!' Pasparon yelled, taking the leaf. 'But you have to promise to shut the hell up!' he threw up his arms. Milo shrugged, and pulled away, tugging on the rope again. 'You should just tie me to a tree,' he shouted back. 'That way, we are not always equidistant, and I don't get on your nerves.' A rock slipped beneath Pasparon's feet as he rose to free himself of Milo, and he almost fell. Shocked, he stood in silence as though waiting to hear it crash against the foot of the cliff, though no sound came. 'That was close,' a hand on his shoulder, woke him from the trance. There was no more talk about anything as they walked down the mountain, following the path to town. Once or twice, when he felt a tug in the rope and Milo's quickened pace, Pasparon looked up at the sky in search of dragons, though it was too dark for them to see anything. It would be eight days and eight nights before the grueling journey was over and they reached Rygel IX, where it all happened. Milo would be handed over to the local court, and Pasparon would be forty thousand gold pieces richer. One's mistake another's reward, one man would return home to his wife with a dozen red roses, hoping to forget the wrong doings of his fellow men. But as fate would have it... |
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| Incident On Rygel IX by lee10@host365.com |
#3 of 14 |
| 1175 words | |
| Two V8 engines dripped harsh venom that echoed from the
tarmac. Brake lights reflected sparks of crimson in oil-streaked puddles. A
feeling of expectancy was thick, almost tangible in the air. Standing in the shadowed doorway of a shabby warehouse, Rael lit up, shading the flare of the match and the cigarette's glow in the palm of his hand. There was something elemental about the internal combustion engine that attracted crowds of spectators to these illegal races. Rael was attracted because the police rarely showed up, their absence being more profitable. A blond girl wearing a skinny white bikini top and light-coloured shorts, too tight to restrain her cheeks, took up a position between the fronts of the vibrating cars, facing the drivers. In each hand she held a white cloth. Slowly she raised her arms ? then snatched them down, unleashing the engines that screamed defiance as two black shapes shot into the night. Rael smiled, pinched out the cigarette and threw the stub into the building before crossing the road to the spaceport. There were no lights down this end of the course and no eyes that were not turned on the race's end. There was only a faint hint of light from the spaceport to guide him to the spot in the chain-link fence that had been cut before and carefully pulled together. Rael pushed the repair to one side, slid through and pulled the ends back across the gap. Rael was early. He was always early. He preferred to have time to check and double check a rendezvous point to make sure that no one stumbled into his affairs without warning. He watched the space ship Alemara as it grew from a faint shadow across the face of Rygel IX's moon till it became a whispering giant that settled gently near the edge of the spaceport. Soon, dozens of cargo carriers of all sizes surrounded the ship likes bees around a honey pot. In the bustle and the seeming chaos, only Rael noticed a single figure hurry away from the ship. "Over here". The man gasped. He could see no one in the dark of the spaceport perimeter. "Rael, is that you?" "Were you expecting someone else?" Rael chuckled and stepped forward. He had been cleaning his nails with a slim knife. The newcomer saw it before it was slid back into its sheath at Rael's waist. "Rael, you ? you frightened me," the man stuttered. "I wish you wouldn't do that." "You poor nervous little man." Rael sneered. "I don't know why you do this when you're ready to wet your pants as soon as somebody shouts 'Boo!'" "It's the last time I promise you," the man declared. "They're sending another courier next time." The man handed over a packet. Rael took it. He crouched and removed a dark cloth from his pocket. He placed the cloth on the crazed concrete then gently laid the packet on the cloth and opened the end. He pulled out a plastic wrapped bundle, which he weighed in his hand. Nodding slightly, he unsheathed his knife and prised open the knot in the string that secured the bundle. A white powder was exposed. Rael licked the tip of a finger and lightly touched the powder. He smelt the grains of the substance that had stuck to his finger. He nodded again. "And who might they be sending next time?" he asked as he resealed the package. "Earle. They said to tell you it'll be Earle." "And what will you be doing instead?" Rael asked, straightening up. "Retiring." "Indeed? Will you be retiring on Rygel IX?" "On this god-forsaken heap? Where's there's no greenery, no grass, no trees?" He gestured towards the city. "Where you never see real daylight because of smog and pollution? Have you ever seen this place from space? It glows like a putrid orange." The man shuddered. "I'd sooner die than live here." He looked down. Rael had vanished. An envelope lay on the cloth. "Give me room to breathe," the man grumbled as he picked up the envelope. "This place is lifeless. Rygel IX? They should call it Scumbag." He opened the envelope and counted the money. "Scumbag or maybe The Pits," he muttered to himself. "I don't know of any other world that's completely covered in concrete like this one." He turned away, stuffing the envelope into an inner pocket of his overcoat. As he did so, he kicked something on the ground and fell full-length. He rolled over, groaning and found himself staring into the smiling face of a spaceport guard. Except the guard wasn't smiling. His throat had been sliced through. The flesh was exposed, red like pouting lips. The man squealed and stumbled to his feet. He fled back to the Alemara, thankful to be escaping this nightmare place. Rygel IX was not on any tourist maps. Occasionally producers of film-noire visited it but generally only miners or the scum of the known universe went to Rygel IX through choice. But no matter how bleak the scenario, there is always hope, and Rygel IX was no exception. The last grass had shrivelled and died on Rygel IX decades ago but a clump of mud was dislodged from the courier's shoe when he kicked the guard's corpse. A light rain washed dried mud away from a tiny seedling, which fell down a crack in the concrete so that it was protected from heavy boots when the guard's remains were removed. The concrete was thin at this point and the tiny seedling was persistent. A strong root pushed down to find nutrients and soon a green plant thrust its head towards yellow daylight. A network of rootlets nourished the new life and began the work of breaking down the concrete, of colonising this small patch of alien ground. Two months passed before Rael was briefed to collect another shipment. He stood in the shadowed doorway shading the glow of his cigarette in the palm of his hand. Two cars were lined up at the start line, their engines sobbing to be set free. The blond girl in a short, tight dress took up her usual position between the fronts of the two throbbing cars, facing the drivers. In each hand she held a white cloth. Slowly she raised her arms ? then snatched them down. One car screeched away into the night. The other squealed and pivoted. The blond was hit and thrown into the air. Her scream was cut short as she thumped onto the bonnet. The car hit the weakened fence and shot through, slicing the girl into bloody ribbons. The petrol tank burst. A wave of fuel ran across the concrete, followed in an instant by a flash of flame that scoured everything in its path. Rygel IX is a lifeless place. There is no greenery, no grass, and no trees. Because of smog and pollution, from space it looks like a putrefying orange. The latest guidebook advises travellers to give it a wide berth. |
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| Incident On Rygel IX by H.J. Lazarus lazdom@ono.com |
#4 of 14 Runner-up |
| 2482 words | |
| Brizzle looked out on the green haze as the
morning’s first sunrise kissed the horizon. Gone were previous
night’s stormy purple clouds that had covered the land with a shwab so
thick not a moon could be seen. He rubbed his head and prepared his mount. He
and the neighbor boy were riding out to check on the herd; he’d probably
lost of few of them, those creatures got so skittish in a storm who knew where
they might have ended up by now. Brizzle sighted Frack’s lean figure in the distance riding like the wind. He smiled to himself, feeling for one slight moment the rush of youth through his own weary frame. "Hey there Brizzle!" "Ready for a ride, Frack? Probably going to have to round some them up as far as the craters today." Frack slapped his mount, "Sure thing. You’re not getting too old to round up a couple of scared heads, are ya Brizzle?" "Not at all, boy. Was just worried you might not be able to spend all morning eating my dust." Brizzle shouted and shot off in the direction of the herd. With a whoop Frack was close behind, the two quickly disappearing in the ocher mist. "Rygel IX passing station, may I help you?" Jannel’s smooth voice came across as understanding and yet in control. Ten years working at the passing station she’d perfected it; the voice at the other end could be someone suffering great personal loss, someone just pricing around, or some freak playing a sick joke. She’d heard it all, or so she’d thought. "Yes, may I speak to Glenden?" "He won’t be in for a while yet. Can I take a message?" "Oh, well," the voice paused. "I am calling from the passing station on the base. I have a special order I’d like to place." "Oh that’s no problem, I do all the ordering. What would you like?" "No, I need to consult with Glenden first. When did you say he would be in?" "It shouldn’t be too long now. Would you like him to call you back?" "No, that’s not necessary. I’ll get in touch with him myself." It wasn’t until Jannel heard the click that she realized she hadn’t got his name. First time in ten years. Frack and Brizzle had been riding for over an hour before they found the first one, tangled in the swamp bloot and sinking a bit more each time it struggled. It took them the better part of the next hour to get the poor creature out and cleaned up enough to lead it back to the herd. By now all four suns were pounding hard on the flatlands and traveling was slow going. They decided to check up north a bit; with any luck they’d find some of the herd and still be able to catch the secondary eclipse and take a well deserved break in the shade, drinking a couple of sklogs Brizzle had in his pack. They’d been riding for about half an hour when Frack pointed towards the horizon, "What’s that, Brizzle?" Brizzle squinted against the harsh light, "I don’t see nothing." "You old man," Frack joked, "don’t you see something shiny way up over there?" Brizzle followed the boy’s gaze and did indeed see something shining silver-white in the hot sun, "Let’s go take a look." As they rode closer, they saw more points gleaming, hundreds of them spreading far over the flatlands. They were pieces of some strange metal debris. Further to the north there was a shallow trench scorched into the ground. "That’s gotta be a good five hundred blots long," Frack said, rubbing his moist neck, "what coulda made something like that?" Brizzle jumped down without answering and moved towards a piece of metal embedded in the ground. He gave it a sharp kick. "Damn!" he muttered, wincing slightly, "That’s pretty tough for such a thin little piece of nothing." Frack reached down and pulled the piece out of the ground. It had been embedded about halfway down. He struggled to bend it, slammed it against the ground to see if he could break it, "This thing won’t bust." He then smiled mischievously, "but it might burn!" Frack took out his Zazzo and tried to melt the metal. "Come on, Frack. It’s been out here on the flatlands at least all day. If that hasn’t fried it, nothing will." Brizzle took the piece from Frack and inspected it carefully, "Look here. It’s got some kinda crazy writing or pictures on it," he passed it back to the boy, "You go to school, know what all that is?" Frack stared at the incomprehensible script, "No. But maybe my mom does. Let’s get a couple of pieces and bring it back. Stuff don’t weigh nothing anyways." "Now look who sounds like an old man," Brizzle joked, hoping the boy wouldn’t notice the worry in his voice, "Let’s go." "Glenden here. How can I help you?" "I’m here at the base, and we’d like to make a special order. I need some passing crates…" "That should be no problem…" "Well, we would need some smaller ones, infant size, really. But they would have to be puffer-sealed," "I assure you all of our line is puffer-sealed. ‘From sealed to eternity’ is our motto" "Well, that’s what I wanted to ask you about. In this case there has been some deterioration, they were, eh, exposed to the elements for a couple of days. Would the puffer-seal keep them intact, with no contamination to the tissue?" "Contamination?" Glenden repeated, not quite understanding the point, but responded nonetheless with his product pitch, "Of course. Same as the day of passing. If you could just give me the exact dimensions, I could have the crates on the base this evening." Glenden jotted down the numbers and promised to have everything ready. He looked quizzically at the odd dimensions before shouting, "Jannel? We’ve got work to do, on the double," then added, "You’re not going to believe this!" "Well that is mighty strange," Frack’s mother said, turning the rod around in her hands to examine it closely. "Can’t say I’ve ever seen anything like that before." "And there’s hundreds of them out there," Frack added excitedly, "What do you think it is?" Brizzle exchanged a quick look with Frack’s parents, "I don’t know," he paused. "Bet I know somebody who does," Frack’s father said, "Seems Rosonda from the Rygel IX Register’s been asking all kinds of questions in town." "Rosonda?" Brizzle echoed, a yellow tinge burning into his cheeks. "Of course your remember Rosonda, Brizzle," Frack’s mother teased gently, "You two go way back." "Frack’s father winked at his wife before continuing, "Woodwim and his father say they saw something bright shooting across the sky the other night. They figure it must have hit the ground somewhere round these parts. They were going to ride out and see if they could find it just as soon as they brought the kweedle harvest in..." "…and Rosonda got wind of it and is snooping around?" Brizzle finished for his friend, then laughed, "Well, if there’s one woman who’ll get to the truth, it’s Ros. Ain’t nothing that could stop her once she sets her noses to something." "You wanna come out and see the stuff, Dad?" Frack asked eagerly. "Sure thing. Let’s go." "Excuse me," the officer said flatly, "this is a restricted zone." "This is my land," Brizzle answered shortly, "I can’t go on my own land?" "Just until the clean-up is finished. There might be contamination," the officer lowered his voice, "it’s for your own protection." "Protection from what, exactly?" Frack’s father asked. "I’m not allowed to answer that at this moment." "You want to call over whoever might be able to answer that?" Brizzle responded angrily. "All my superiors are involved in the investigation at the moment. If I could take down your name, we will send an information officer over as soon as possible." "Don’t waste your time," Brizzle spat back, pulling his mount, "or mine, for that matter." and the three rode off. "State your business." "I’m from the Rygel IX passing station," Glenden said nervously, "I’ve got a special order here." The officer consulted his notes and buzzed Glenden through the heavily guarded gate. "Once you’re in the building, it’s the third door on the left." Glenden pushed his cart with the passing crates through the front gate and down the path into the building. He was about to go in the third door when he heard a voice, "Glenden?" He turned and saw a young woman he had done his training course with, "Sidle? Is that you? Hey, it’s great to see you!" "What are you doing here?" "Just dropping off a special order," he said, nodding towards the cart. "Is it for THEM?" her voice suddenly conspiratorial. "Them?" "Haven’t you heard? They brought in some, er, bodies the other night. ALIEN bodies." "Aliens?" Glenden repeated, unable to believe what he was hearing. "I saw them myself. Really gross. They’ve only got two arms and two legs. And they’ve got these really little heads with tiny eyes." She shuddered slightly. "But where did they…." "Hey, you two!" an exceedingly large officer barked from down the hallway. He moved quickly towards them and grasped Sidle firmly, "You are coming with me," and with an icy stare added, "and you go about your business and get out of here," before dragging a squirming Sidle off. "Yes sir," Glenden murmured to himself and pushed his cart through the third door. "I can’t believe they won’t let you onto your own land," Frack’s father complained as they entered the house, "Who do they think they are?" As soon as he saw his wife’s face he knew something was wrong, "Hon?" Her shaking hands belied her steady tone, "As soon as you all left, some officers showed up. They said they were from the base, and came to pick up the metal." "They confiscated it? Right out of our own home?" She nodded, "They said it might be contaminated," her voice started to tremble, "They said it was for our…" "…own good," Brizzle finished for her, "Yeah, we got the same story. They’re going to clean up this place good and tight. Make sure none of us can prove we saw anything." "But that’s not fair," Frack protested, "We saw it. It was real." Brizzle had a thought, "Didn’t Woodwim and his dad see something the other night? We could ride into town and hear their story. If there’s enough of us who’d seen something, they won’t be able to shut us all up." Frack brightened up, "Let’s go!" The local eatery was doing a brisk business, waitresses rushing from table to table. The three decided to sit at the bar. "You think Woodwim will show up here?" Frack asked, sipping his sklog carefully. "He usually has dinner here. Maybe we’ll get lucky." "You’re wasting your time," a weary voice came from the table behind them. The three turned to see young Glenden from the passing station slumped over, obviously already four or five sklogs to the wind. "Glenden?" Brizzle asked slowly, "You know where Woodwin is?" "Nope." he said sadly. The men exchanged a confused look. Glenden shook his head before adding, "Nobody does now." Frack’s father looked sharply, "What you saying, Glenden? You’re talking crazy." "No, I’m not. The Woodwin’s are gone. Just like Sidle. Probably like a lot of us." "Gone?" With a sigh Glenden sat up and looked directly at Brizzle. Three of his eyes were bruised bright white, and a drip of dark yellow blood had dried from under a nose. "You’re here about THEM, aren’t you? Well if you’re smart, you’ll just keep quiet about it. The base is making sure we’re all very quiet about it," he took another swig from his glass, "Sidle saw them, and who knows where she is now. The Woodwin’s saw them, but since Woodwin works on the base, he’s suddenly had an emergency transfer. At least that’s the official story," Glenden swallowed the dregs from his glass, "you can see I was given the ‘unoffical’ version." "And we’d found some stuff and brought it back to our house and they came and took it away," Frack added quickly, "they won’t even let Brizzle onto his land where we found the stuff." Glenden waved his hands in the air helplessly, "See? Amazing how easy it was to shut up the folks at Rygel IX." Brizzle hung his head, "And now if we say anything about what we saw we’re going to sound like a bunch of crazy granks from the flatlands. Always seeing something there ain’t." He lifted his head to see a figure in the doorway. He knew those curves like the fur on his hands. "Hey there Brizzle. Good to see you" "Hi there, Rosonda," he answered, fighting the slight rush he felt as she came closer. Ros was a dangerous combination, a woman with a hard head and a soft body. "Guess you know what we’re all on about." "Sure do," she answered, "I’m just surprised none of you are willing to fight this thing." The truth stung. Brizzle answered defensively, "Well what you expect us to fight with? We’ve got no proof of anything, and…" Brizzle’s voice was drowned out by the TV at the bar, "…The military base at Rygel IX is carrying out a massive clean-up operation after failed weatherprobe testing caused one of the probes to crash to the ground, not far from some neighboring farms. The project, originally meant to be confidential, has been made public to assuage the fears of several residents in the area, who thought the accident and the resulting debris were the work of an alien invasion. The military regret this unfortunate incident, but in a few hours residents will be able to resume their normal activities …" "Isn’t that just perfect, just an ‘unfortunate incident’" Glenden spat, holding up his hand for another sklog. "Well, I’m not just going to sit here and let them get away with it," Rosanda said angrily, "Mark my words, one day the name of Rygel IX will be synonymous with the greatest military cover-up ever," And stormed out. Glenden watched her leave, then added, "I doubt that greatly." Brizzle smiled a bit, "Well if anyone can dig up the facts, it’s Rosanda. Give her some room. She won’t stop till the truth is known. It might take her years, but she’ll do it." Frack smiled skeptically, "I think the name of Rygel IX is going to be associated with the biggest bunch of crazies and space freaks, no matter what she uncovers," then taking another swig of his sklog said, "But I could be wrong. I mean, You know Ros well." |
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| Incident On Rygel IX By Timothy Callahan tpcomputerman@msn.com |
#5 of 14 |
| 1105 words | |
| I can’t believe I saved the world, and this is the
thanks I get?Major John Rammos thought as he stood in line at the supermarket.
A linehe’d been standing in for the last 45 minutes. A line he got into
becausehe thought it’d move faster than all the other lines. A line that
wassuppose to be the express line. "Register three open!" He heard and looked. He saw the lightabove the register turn on and like moths the group of people behind himrushed over to the light, and the newly opened register. Anger quickly built up inside of the Major and he took a deep,calming breath. I should be the first one in that line, those people behindme weren’t in line nearly as long as I was, and now they’ll get out beforeme! His line inched forward ever so slowly, while the line next tohim seemed to zip along as if there was some sort of super-checker at theregister. He was tempted to move to the other line when he realized that hewas next after a rather large, burry woman. The burry woman in front of him searched her pocket book. "I’msorry, I know that I had the cash. Do you take checks?" Rammos sighed. She turned to him, "do you have a problem?" Deep breath, Rammos thought. "No problem at all. You justwrite that check for a dollar thirty three, go ahead, I’m in no hurry." "Good." She turned back to the cashier. Rammos followed her gaze to the cashier. This was the reason hesaved the world, for beautiful woman such as her. She had blond hair pulled back into a ponytail. Her face, youngand full, held two of the brownest eyes Rammos had ever seen. The storeuniform she wore did little to hide the athletic body underneath. Hernametag read Cassandra. Major Rammos wished he were 50 year younger justso he stood a chance at such a lovely vision of a woman. Yeah, he thought. What would my pick up line be? "Hey baby,did you know that I saved the world?" "Oh really?" He imagined her reply. "Yup, it was on this little back water world called Rygel IX." "Please, tell me more!" In his mind he saw her big, brown eyesfixated on him with undeterred attention. "Oh, it was nothing. You see, the Rygel’s, this worm like racewanted to destroy the Earth with this massive ray, well me and my companystormed the base, took out the leader, and destroyed the ray. It wasnothing really, I mean, all in a days work for the IA." "The IA? What’s that handsome? Oh, and I want to sleep withyou once you tell me." "Oh, you will after I tell you. The Intergalactic Army, verytop secret, very hush, hush. In fact, just telling you this will mean I’llhave to kill you, after we make love of course." "Oh, of course, I’m sure that after we make love I will never beable to fulfill myself again, so death is the only option anyway." "Sir?" The brown eyes woman said, "Sir, you’re next." Not realizing that he was daydreaming so hard, Rammos blinkedtwice. "Oh, sorry." He said and put his groceries on the conveyer belt. He watched as she scanned each item. He was sure he looked likean old fool, standing there not moving when the rude woman in front of himhad left. "Oh shoot." She said. "What?" He asked, looking at her confused face. "The system just went down. It’ll take a few moments for it tocome back up." "Oh, okay." He replied and stood there, trying not to stare atthe girl. The imaginary conversation he had with her ran through his headagain. A wry smile formed on his lips and he thought, what the hell. "Say,did you know that I saved the world?" With a smile she replied, "oh really, How did you do that?" "You see it was on this little planet called Rygel IX, probablynever heard of it before, huh?" Her smiled broadened, "no, can’t say that I did." She was getting a kick out this, he thought. There would be no way in hellshe’d believe me, just an old man trying to make pass at a younger woman. "Oh yeah, it’s near the crab nebula. You see, they had this weapon of massdestruction and they wanted to use it on Earth, they wanted to destroy us." "Why would they want to do that?" "They were assholes." He replied. From behind him he heard laughter, the people in line werelistening in on his conversation. Cassandra giggled and said, "Is thatit?" "I’m sure there were other reasons, but that’s the one I like togo with. Anyway, my company, we stormed the main base. Oh, it was amassive fire fight, see, I got this scar," he rolled up his sleeve to revilea small scar on his upper arm, "during the fight. We took out at least 200of them before we could enter the base. Once we did we met even stifferresistance." "My goodness, it’s a good thing you weren’t killed." "Oh, they tried, but in the end, we made it to the gun. Just meand Jack." "What happen to everyone else?" "Sadly, they were killed." Maybe he put too much emotion in hisvoice, maybe his eyes just dropped a little too far because the reaction hegot from this girl wasn’t one he was expecting, she stopped smiling andlooked sad. "Anyway, so Jack and I, after killing the Rygel’s in the room,went to work on the ray. I mean, we shot the crap out of it, blew it tobits! There by saving the world!" Cassandra, once again smiling, clapped. "Thank you sir, I’mglad we have people like you saving us from alien destructors." "For a pretty thing like yourself, it’s worth it." "Thanks." She shyly replied as her register came back to life. "Your order is up, that’ll be 15.98." He gave her the money and after getting the change grabbed hisstuff to leave. The girl touched his arm, "that story isn’t true, is it?" She whispered. "No," he whispered back, "just the ramblings of an old man withtoo much time on his hands." She nodded, took her arm off his, and said, "thanks anyway, youknow, just in case." "You’re welcome, you know, just is case." He winked, and thenleft the supermarket. |
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| Incident On Rygel IX by EricLogDog eaayers@hotmail.com |
#6 of 14 |
| 2480 words | |
| CHAPTER ONE The court members were already seated when I was dragged in. When I was finally dropped at the defendant's platform, I slowly raised up slightly to straighten the chains so I could kneel without bruising what was left of my knees. Immediately, I was struck down by the guard's baton. "You will KNEEL before the magistrates of justice!" he bellowed. The overload on my translator implant caused blinding pain to race from ear to ear. I knew I shouldn't have gone cheap for that implant! Without looking directly at him, I thanked him for his wisdom. What a turn of events! I had gone from an unscrupulous, egotistical trading fleet owner, to groveling, unimportant rodent in just a little under three months. During that period, I suffered a series of beatings and other tortures that most men and aliens would not have survived Now, it was time for me to be found guilty and sentenced to death for bioterrorism…for something I never knew even existed on my ship. CHAPTER TWO My name is Zelor Marknine. I am a rogue trader pilot from Algor 6, just a little left of Cerebus when viewing the stars from my ancestors’ home planet of Earth. We had to leave Earth when its star went nova on June 29, 2239. We escaped before the nova, but it took about 10 generations to reach a new world to inhabit and that was a war in itself. We had over 100,000 starships, none with hyperspace capability. Essentially, the last citizens of earth were basically flotsam cast asea in space. Upon reaching what we called New Earth, we found it inhabited by Creliens. This species decided that the only way we would set foot on their planet was either as slave labor or as a new food source. We lost about half the fleet in that fight and the only way we survived was by using nuclear missiles we brought with us. With half the planet irradiated, we agreed to live apart from the Creliens, dividing the usable land. We stole technology and found new food sources. Our old ships were refitted with new technology and within a century, we colonized 30 more systems. A repeat of earth history the ancients called 'Manifest Destiny.' CHAPTER THREE We found the Rygel system on my seventh birthday, 92 years ago. Well, it found us. My parents were on a ship that had a cascade failure in its hyperpropulsion unit (HPU). The HPU put us into a wormhole until the core melted. We managed to make orbit around Rygel XIII, hoping for repairs. My father was sent to negotiate with the inhabitants for some assistance. He never returned. I grew up in orbit around this near-frozen orb of hostile aliens. They could have blown us out of the sky had they given a tinker's damn. To get food, some of the crew sold children to other species for several possible uses: food, slaves or 'entertainment'. I was sold for the latter. The captain of the vessel thought it would be funny to have an alien to terrorize. He wasn't sure what I was saying to him as he put me through various tortures, menial tasks and anatomical explorations, but usually he beat me based on my tone of voice. Usually, I deserved it. I know my life sounds pretty bleak, but I managed to learn the language and found that this captain had a sense of humor. I was able to actually become what I believed to be the first human entertainer outside our solar system. Eventually, Captain Brelnak decided he actually liked me. He began to pay me for my services. That was where I earned the money to buy my freedom, the translator implant, and finally, my own ships. CHAPTER FOUR Having survived captivity, I became stronger as I grew. I learned Rygellian customs, their laws and even became a certified trader in their system. Rygellian traders refused to allow me to join their guild. Thus I was never allowed to charge more than half their fees for hauling goods from planet to planet. I was happy they never figured out that I was being kept ever so busy because they forced me to undercut their rates-by law. Eventually, I had seven ships of my own. Of course, it wouldn't do that the most successful trader was an offworlder. Several times my life was threatened, and soon I "sold out" to a drunkard named Threlik. He was the figurehead in my organization. As long as Threlik was "owner", I could stay on as assistant. All was well in the Rygel system. CHAPTER FIVE Eventually, I spent a large sum repairing that old rust bucket still in orbit over Rygel XIII. Once repaired, she made for New Earth, abandoning those Terrans not still on board. Of course, this virtually eliminated my prospects for a wife and family, so I concentrated on building my empire. I tripled my efforts to get new ships, and new trade routes. I was making new headway in the outer sectors, but was never allowed to enter the inner planets for trade…not without Threlik at the helm. I was a peon and nothing more once we crossed inside Rygel X's orbit. Now a simple servant, I was relegated listening to the aliens, and learned a great many things from them. Threlik added to my education by describing the Rygellian Empire and its history. From his drinking binges, I learned secrets about his worlds that no outworlder should have ever known. The trader's guild allowed me to "run" Threlik's ship when he was asleep, a truly monumental decision for them. I developed my trade capabilities by scheduling all trades at night. Thus, the other traders had to deal with me. And I soon had a reputation as ruthless and cunning. CHAPTER SIX I now was at Rygel IX to buy a totally new ship. It's design was a combination of pirate vessel, full-size Rygellian trader and speed cruiser. The triple-drive HPU would return me to New Earth about as fast as the wormhole took us from it. We arrived at Rygel IX at night, but since I couldn't perform trade inside the inner planets, Threlik was at the helm. We were informed that the merchant council here had placed the ship on an extremely strict quarantine, which I thought was ridiculous since we'd left here not more than three weeks ago. No Rygellian disease ever incubated that fast. The medical teams sent aboard scanned, poked and prodded everyone and everywhere on the ship. I was last, being "a truly non-sentient being." They scanned me. "Nothing out of the ordinary, for scum," the technician said. But as the scan went down to my boots, a klaxon sounded and everybody went into a full panic. Something was definitely wrong. The ship and all personnel were irradiated with high-energy photons. This would kill whatever it was that scared them. Of course, half the crew didn't survive the treatment either. 'Acceptable losses,' according to the Rygellian representative. I myself nearly died, and took 45 days to recover from that treatment. When I finally came to, I was in a cell. I had never been allowed to touch the planet before, but now I was in the worst place to be on a world that hates offworlders. As I moved around, my shadow crossed the cell window…and the vegetables started streaming in--rotten, sickening, well-thrown garbage streamed through the barred windows. I was not surprised that Rygellians had an extremely uncanny ability to hit a target with items thrown from any of their five arms. It had to be that third eye…its capability for judging three-dimensional distance. Once, I saw a Rygellian who’d lost that third eye. He moved as awkwardly as a drunk cat with its whiskers cut. CHAPTER SEVEN My lawyer said I was in trouble for trying to import bacteria on my person. Namely, a small amount of dirt that collected on my boots was carrying a colony of streptococcus. The same illness that killed humans on Earth before penicillin was considered a bioterror threat on this planet. I didn't understand why I was in trouble until Captain Threlik visited me in jail…the last time I’d see him. He started out our visit by explaining he was leaving the system. As a result of this threat, his fleet was not authorized to enter in the inner worlds for the next 10 cycles. His fleet, my eye! He had me cold, and I was losing my magnificent bloody fleet! I asked how the courts worked here. He was provided a memory deck of the evidence. It was from this evidence that I saw the strep bacteria. He told me that I was pretty much done for. I was an offworlder, and now I was accused of bringing the same strain bacteria onto the home system that was responsible for killing most of their exploration fleet a couple of centuries ago. "You see, we were invaders, too," Threlik explained. "We found worlds with resources and invaded to get them. We didn't have a lot of particle weapon technology, but one of our scientists came up with a way of adding energized neutrons into a star to make it appear to nova. "A long time ago, we found this system that had one decent planet among several around this star. Understand, I'm quoting from our history books. The planet's inhabitants were abusing it! We didn't have many minerals left on the ships, and this planet was ripe for picking. We just didn't want these filthy beings around to interfere with us. "The scientists made their star nova. Well, for thirty years, it looked to be a goner to the native species. They left. We took the planet. They never knew what really happened. "But we didn't know that they left a little gift. The bacteria. It hit us hard. We had ships crashing into their moon, into each other, all because the infection wreaked paranoid havoc on our crews. No war damage to the cruisers, just a bunch of Rygellian crewmembers hearing little voices in their head that declared they were under attack. "We were able to control it eventually. We found a chemical that, while not really safe for our bodies, would totally eliminate the infection within a few days." "So why am I in trouble if you can control this bacteria?" I inquired. "The chemical is highly addictive, and those who survived were soon warring with each other for control of the chemical. Warlords formed gangs on the ships and drug wars ended up destroying another third of the fleet. They limped home but brought no minerals from the planet. The planet itself ended up being settled by our people, but as a penal colony with ongoing mining operations." Threlik said his goodbyes and left me to go to what was now his fleet. CHAPTER EIGHT "Hey! Offworlder! Wake up!" The guard's boot, so to speak, landed squarely against my rib cage. There was the telltale twig-snap sound and I could barely breathe, let alone respond. Again, the magistrate intervened. "Centurian! I said hold! He's obviously not as sentient as we are, as we have proved by his ridiculous attempt to destroy our people." "Zelor Marknine, you have been found guilty of attempting to destroy the Rygellian Empire. I will ask you some questions and then decide your sentence. Do you understand?" I replied in a very quiet voice, with as much respect as I could muster with a collapsing lung. "My lord, I do understand what you have said. What information may I provide you?" At this point, I was just ready to have this over with. Death was really looking better all the time. "You said you were not out of the system in about 35 cycles (the equivalent of 92 earth years). The bacteria should have been long dead by then. How did you keep it alive?" An interesting question he posed, no doubt an attempt to get me to slip and give away my guilt. "As I said, revered one, I do not know where the dirt came from. I hadn't even been off the ship in at least 3 cycles. The ship's computer would have proven that, had we recalled Captain Threlik for testimony." "What did you think you would benefit by killing all of us off?" the magistrate inquired. "Nothing, your grace. As an offworlder, I had the best life I could expect. I was respected as a trader among the guild members I was allowed to trade with. And those Terrans remaining would have also suffered from the effects of a bacteriological plague. Your Excellency, Rygel is my home. "The next question your eminence should be asking is 'Why should I believe your innocence?' I fixed my people's broken ship so it could go home. If I had wanted to leave, that was my chance. Or, I could have stolen the Preklan Cra from Threlik and been gone before he knew what happened. I did not want to leave Rygel. I had respect, your wisdom, and was probably the richest offworlder in Rygel. I didn't want for anything I couldn't get." After a long pause, he cleared the room. Never, according to the judicial history tapes I reviewed, had the court been cleared, except in case of riot. "I've already convicted you, and that is not going to change. I'll probably lose my job for this, but somehow, I believe what your saying. You don't seem to care what happens to you here, but I'm letting you live, alien. Something in your words has stuck in my soul…." I was in such shock I could not even breathe. "…Therefore, I am sentencing you to be banishment from this system. All your assets become Rygel Government property. You will live your remaining life out on our convict resettlement world, should you survive the trip. There you will be a prisoner like all the others in the mining operation prison camp known as Montana." EPILOGUE Six hundred fifteen years after a believed-supernova, an earthling returned to his home planet. Upon reaching what was known as earth, the Terran was led from his prison ship to a mining operation that had been visible from space. This mineral extraction operation had been operating for over 550 years and had pretty much reduced the area known as the Rocky Mountains to a waste landfill. The immensity of its size was rivaled only by the immensity of the danger it held for the miners. Ten days after arriving, Marknine was killed in a tunnel collapse. Marknine's return to earth was never documented in human chronicles, but he was a success where no other human had ever been…first, in the Rygel system, and finally, in getting home. The End |
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| Incident On Rygel IX by Johny al-Yamani X ikke john@aol.com |
#7 of 14 |
| 2491 words | |
| Le syekk, which means "no doubt," since our
tongue broke by distance, Rygel IX was just one foot of many stumbling around a
star. See, the planet'd been a piece of dirt when we arrived, and gathered dirt
in our minds once we walked around for a while, looking for anything, an oasis,
clean spring, anything. Whatever water we found gave our nisaa'
miscarriages, the heights gave us broken limbs, and the gasses gave our
children extra limbs, some as tiny as lice, others long as vines before we
snipped them off at birth, teary-eyed and bloodyminded. And the dust, the dust
covered everything remotely helpful the JEM'd ever dropped on us. Sooty dust,
wet dust, dust with jagged pieces of rocks, hot dust, cold dust, any kind of
dust under our ilaah's indifferent eye. Any kind of dust on one foot,
because we found it interesting being dropped on a planet called Rygel IX,
because ryjel, whatever in hell it meant to them, meant "foot" to us, in
our tongue. Humor on a humorless planet. Our first son died of suffocation. My wife . . . my wife rocked him for hours, and when I pointed it out, out of pity, she dropped him on the coarse floor, all of a sudden more horrified at the nearness of death than death itself. My first daughter died of "syeehaatien," as we call it. Meant she was born with half a head, or a nutsize heart, or, in her case, skullless with a brain shaped like a crescent moon, craters and all. Her mother'd screamed,— her name is Natie, she's . . . in her twenties,— she'd screamed and screamed and I stormed out into the perpetual dusk with eyes full of stars and moons and beauty up and so far away from me, knocking over rows of our beige, dying plants, drooling, weeping, covering my mouth with black cloth. We made love, she had my second son, who never apologized, but dropped out of my wife in the night, soaking our legs. Love, again, and a third son, who held onto me for five years, then died in a cloud on his own. Love, a dead daughter, coughing up lungs. Love, a fourth son, whose intestines fell out with feces. Love, death. Now, I'm tying up my boots as tight as they tie, sitting on our bed-cushion, and my wife's killing herself in the bathing tube, the only clean place in our "beit," and soundlessly. All decidedly calmly. All over, our women are drowning themselves, tentative at first, then brazenly, sliding into the tubes upside down, instead of rightside up, closing the tubes' hatches with their toes. Some tying cloth over their eyes, so, sightless, they lose all directions. All widows, all somehow sonless, daughterless, but mothers, weeping and putting themselves into misery, to loose themselves from it. We'd wept together, I'd kissed her, we'd made love together, I'd made promises, we'd left each other happy, or as content as we could be, together sweaty, suicidal, decidedly inhuman. "The women go by water," we men'd said unanimously, "the men by fire." On the way to the door I catch myself on dirty screens, every angle, every perception, foot to head, head to foot. Outside, through however many holes the ninth ryjel of the star system put into the ceiling of our beit, there was nothing but grey, swirling, smoke . . . Transfixed, I stand there until the waves change, the swirling changes direction. "Men, you'll take your wives from the tubes," we'd said. "And deposit them." Carefully, I work open the door, barely rustier than the day I'd installed it, and slide into the hemmem. While my hands are working my balaclava onto my head, my boots are clicking from the door to the hatch. All around is white, some painful brightness, except for this neutral, beige hatch. The way it worked was you'd open the hatch, and . . . you'd slide into the steel tube, dripped into the floor. The steel tube, somewhat wider than Natie's hips, filled with water, deep enough you floated, and you dropped liquid soap into the water, and the water'd . . . start frothing . . . On my side, I'm lying on the floor to get my hands under her shoulders. I turn onto my back and heave her out of the tube all at once. Throwing my arm around her waist when she starts to slip, I lay her out flat on the tiles, beside the hatch. Her body, moon-white with blue blotches, lies exposed, awful, emaciated, her ribs like bent steel beams, her breasts still firm, but her belly sunken. I put my hand up against my forehead and my movements become like . . . insectile clicks. Click. I glance at the door. Click. I'm dragging my wife's body out of the hemmem. Click. I'm kissing her blue lips, spitting prayers over her, all over. Click. Outside, in the winds, and all I see are eyes like mine, dark and intense, coal-lined and sunken, and my hands are under my wife's shoulders, and somebody else's are wrapped around her ankles, and together we swing her up onto a heap of other men's wives and daughters, all pale against the wind's flying black grit. Minutes. Some bodies tumble from the peaks, and wild, utterly mad men are running, stepping on other men's wives' outstretched hands and fingers to get to their lost ones to turn their faces out of the ash and dirt and miniscule crystals. I lose sight of Natie forever, and the piles become one white sash across the earth, all at once. Iel-Farjie is herding the men into the backs of transports, rustbuckets, because rust is the truth, as true as cleanliness and purity are to a stream, somewhere out there. And the herds are writhing, screaming, glad to strap belts around their waists, all around their bodies, bristling with grenades of any sort, fire and metal, any shape, make or length. And all the men are shifting, black pillars, all wild, teary eyes, and I am standing beside Ibdilaa Buikeer, who is weeping quietly, but obviously. Iel-Farjie isn't herding us, because I'm Isse Tefelie, who fought off the splinter "gabielaa" during my teens, maybe . . . early twenties. That "gabielaa" being our brothers who decided that walking into death was better than waiting for it. Once in a while, they came back, laughing and ululating. "Killing our newborns," we'd say, unanimously. But . . . actually . . . anyone . . . Someone's shooting into the wives with a gun that couldn't puncture the skin of the living anymore, in bad a condition as the bullets were. He's screaming, he's screaming, "Ah ilaah, ah ilaah I can't take this. Ilaahi, take this." And the rustbuckets are driving off already so we're all that's left bloodthirsty, thirsting for this man's blood. But somebody else stops the shooting, leaping on his back, stabbing him in the chest and face and . . . neck. And all of a sudden I feel lightheaded so I take out a plastic sikkare and light it up with my laser pointer, which takes minutes. It's foul and I get granules of grit between my teeth that crunch but I'm thoughtless. "That's them all," Feried Iel-Haaj says, scratching his tinted, shaven cheek. "Let's go," I'm saying, but can't possibly be saying because Iel-Haaj walks away, tripping over his own ankles, un-able to keep his eyes off the women, all the naked, dead women. I feel a profound urge to find . . . Natie, . . . but I pull myself together and follow the rest of the men to the garages, underground, like everything, pitch black if it weren't for the cone-like lights, suspended along the ceiling, and swaying side-to-side forever. Click. I find myself holding a rifle that fires pieces of metal the size of my shortest finger, and running. All of a sudden I remember the damage the bullet offers, the way it spalls in men, chin to thighs, how unpredictably it enters and exits a man's body, sometimes leaping out of knees, unable to pass, sometimes flying out of napes, without the force to follow a man's spinal cord to its source. At once, I remember a gabieli falling from a transport, rolling down an incline, and me shooting him as he rolled, and only when he stopped moving did the grotesquely large bullet pop out of his chest, from between two ribs, still smoking. Some of the metal heaped up down there, in the garages, had energy attached, harnessed in a boxlike hive, as small as four cubes of ice, set up like a house, and the energy moved the larger framework attached to it, according to a law of physics. Which framework, on two wheels, one front one back, sometimes supported a padded seat, sometimes nothing but a flat, narrow length of metal for the bodies of human beings, prone to discomfort as they are. Sitting on this flat strip of metal, with my legs on either side of the framework, I steer the derrejaa out, swerving around the others, and all the dirt and grime kicked up by other tires jumps and sticks to me, coating me. The wide, black, circular plate I strapped onto my head helps nothing, but bathes my nonface in more shadow. And my rifle is slung over my shoulders, and all of us seem . . . the . . . same . . . My eyes, flying past, stick to the pale women, still now, peaceful, all eyes closed, or most, and all settled, none toppled. And my heart hurts for them, collectively, as theirs hurt for us, and I cannot mourn them, because we are all the same. And the heaps stretch for a long white while, in those trenches we dug, and we stretch on the trails, darker darkness somehow stretched out on night. Some of us die early, losing sight of the road, crashing, breaking limbs, detonating ourselves hopelessly; most of us ride, try to catch up with the rustbuckets. Our destination is our only earthly link to the stars. All those stars, which we've decided to cast off our crowns, our shoulders, our backs. Our destination is a spire, that I see every . . . few months, when they come down to us, when they check on us. JEM, Iel-Joemhuuriaat Iel-Earabia el-Moettahiedaa. The United Arab Republics. Le syekk, they will know. At once I remember overhearing: "On the one hand, our stuff tastes like shit. On the other hand, it helps your bodies more than anything you grow yourselves. We brought you here to thrive, Berjaawi, you know that. You weren't thriving at home, that's for sure. Now, if you sign this place over to us, and completely? We won't know what the hell to do with it. If you give up, we'll end up dropping you people off one by one once we can't support you all. Who knows where you'll end up, you know? If you hold out here, it'll pay off. If you take our food, it'll pay off. If you keep this place together, it'll pay off. All this makes sense to me, I don't know why it doesn't make sense to you." Shit . . . eating . . . grin. The JEM know. Out of nowhere a . . . cylinder falls onto the trail, tearing bodies to shreds. No fire, just pieces of shrapnel the size of hands, and heads, and sharp as diamond, and I'm startled enough I slide the derrejaa into the dirt, standing up just as quick, stumbling, and wondering if I'll explode. I'm standing still long enough to see a JEM jet lose control from straffing us in all the thick, dirty wind, and clip the side of the cliff on our side. It topples over, upsidedown, and the JEM pilot pulls up, turning the jet's beak down into the trail. Off in the distance it's plume gives me nothing. Le syekk. We all get back on our derrejaat and speed, weaving past limbs and men crawling with-out them, waiting for us to pass so they can trip their fuses. Our destination is burning. Our men are scattering, detonating on any of the JEM men they can latch onto. Wailing and startlingly lucid, they climb over razorwire, take bullets, crawl close enough and detonate, and the JEM, with their stunningly reflective visors, need to take the running men down. We detonate under their feet. We detonate as pain itself, vessels of pain, absorbing the pain, embracing to pain to be rid of it. And somehow the gabielaa'd seen us mobilize, because they're attacking in the distance, eating bullets and laughing at the same time, as I . . . remember . . . I drive the derrejaa into a smoking section of the fence and right through, ducking. Ahead, there is a low incline, leading up to the spire's foundation, the spire which the gabielaa has somehow shelled, somehow battered enough that I see tiny figures leaping out, flying, carried by the wind far out onto the scorched ground, their limbs spread out like wings. On the incline my derrejaa steadily climbs, there are open gunnery pits, cut horizontally into its face, each linked to the spire by passages underground. Carefully I detach a grenade from my throbbing chest, steering blindly, and after I lob the grenade into a pit, my tire flies into it and I'm . . . thrown . . . above . . . Somebody's shooting at me, and I know because I hear it pepper the dirt around me and chip my brow, and then I hear nothing because a grenade explodes in the pit below me, collapsing the earthen roof and me into it. And I'm sprawled out with the bodies of . . . Two madly groaning gunners whose limbs are . . . In the corners and the sky is getting black or I'm blinded and my face feels wet and something hot is gushing onto my lips, nose, eyes, and . . . and . . . Somebody's grabbing at my chest, trying to strip something off me and I ask, "Is it funnylooking?" Which somehow doesn't make sense, but I keep asking, feeling somebody tugging at me, trying to strip me, dragging me back through a narrow passage by my shoulders, the close walls of which I feel with my . . . feet. Then I feel a heavy thudding through the floor and small things hitting me and somebody lets go of my shoulders after grabbing at my chest and leaves, boots clicking away quickly then a blunt thud it's purely darkness and I . . . feel . . . Feel incidental, then fire. And off one foot, another. |
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| Incident On Rygel IX by mrwrleft@yahoo.com |
#8 of 14 |
| 1219 words | |
| "Soldiers", Major Zott was pontificating, standing in
front of the silent group stretched in a subordinate eager, "this evening you
all will be dropped from the helicopters on the different small islands in the
Pacific Ocean. Is that clear?" "Yes, major Sir!", the collective roar responded. "The task is to watch for a possible enemy landing and use of the islands as a base for the unexpected attack. Vigilance! I demand vigilance of you soldiers! Is that clear?" "Yes, major Sir!" "You'll stay there until the further notice. Is that clear?" "Yes, major Sir!" "Any questions?" "What are the exact locations of the islands, Sir?" one of the soldiers inquired. "What's your name Private?" "Private Smith, major Sir". "Private Smith, three steps forward". The scared soldier did as requested and stood still. "For idiots I repeat: the islands are in the Pacific Ocean. Any more questions? "No, major Sir!" "The rest of the instruction you'll receive from your commanders on the islands. Is that clear?" "Yes, major Sir!" "Ok then. Get ready in one hour." **** "Rygel 9, Rygel 9, how do you read?" "I'm Rygel 9. Read you OK". "Rygel 9, Rygel 9 helicopter drop at eighteen hundred hours. Repeat." "I am Rygel 9. Helicopter drop at eighteen hundred hours ready." "Rygel 9, prepare to receive one more private. How do you read?" "I am Rygel 9. Read you ok. Receive one more private." **** As Billy Smith found out there were five other soldiers under Sergeant Welsh's command on the island. Some people were relatively green: two-three month, others were here for year or more. "Why is it called Rygel 9?", Billy asked one of the old timers, struck by the unusual sounding. "It's simple", the old timer responded. The explanation was indeed simple enough. Major Zott was a big fan of the SCI-FI series "FARSCAPE". His favorite character in there was Rygel the XVI, the Dominar of Hyneria. Rygel was a total git. He was self centered, disloyal, greedy, flatulent and absolutely wonderful. `His soul' mate as major Zott assured. Obeying his extravagant common sense major Zott gave all twelve islands that were under his command the code name Rygel starting from Rygel 1 and to Rygel 12. There wasn't much to do on the island. In the morning the sergeant Welsh ordered three men to patrol the island that was two miles in diameter. The rest of the squad did their morning exercises and ate breakfast prepared by Brew - half cook half doctor. The remaining hours soldiers played cards until dinner. In the evening the private Wilbert connected with the central station on the portable radio and reported "no incidents on Rygel 9" and received directions. Soldiers felt stupefied from boredom. Only one entertainment existed on the Rygel 9. Billy Smith learned its particulars three days after his arrival. **** "Soldiers we are going up the mountains", Sergeant Welsh lowered his eyes as if studying the condition of his boots. Some of the old timers started to grin sarcastically. "Hey Davis, wipe that grin off your face. We are here in this God forsaken shit hole…far away from the mainland", he paused, "…if you know what I mean…Yes it ain't pretty, but its cheap for the taxpayers and it's effective!", he concluded raising his voice. "I don't want you soldiers to start sucking each other's…", he has torn off his tirade realizing that should he append one more word the phrase would sound politically incorrect. "Private Smith. You are the newcomer. Your task would be to hold the goat. Do you understand?" "No Sir" "Are you stupid or something?" "No Sir" "It seems to me you are getting dumber everyday. Does it seems to you too Smith?" "Sir, it did seem to me before, but it doesn't seem to me anymore Sergeant, Sir" "I like philosophical answers", Sergeant grinned at the squad allowing their condescending laugh. **** "Smith, are you a good runner?", the sergeant Welsh was whipping the sweat of his face as they have reached the green plateau half the way to the top of the mountain. "I'd say so, Sir." "How good are you? Davis runs a hundred meters in 10.9. Can you best him?" "My personal best was at 10.7 Sir". "Excellent! You see this goat over there", Welsh was pointing to the group of goats that were peacefully munching the grass in about 200 feet away from them. "Which one Sir, you mean the one with the black head?" "No the one right next to it. Davis you know which one I have in mind?" "Yes Sir" "OK Davis, Smith, everybody - go get her. Catch that goat". *** "That's the wrong goat stupid", the sergeant screamed. Billy Smith shrugged helplessly and released the captured animal. "It's right behind you", yelled the sergeant pointing at the correct goat. Billy turned around and finally was able to grab the needed goat by the tail. "Baaaahh", the goat was trying free herself seeing all the soldiers running towards it. "Hold her by the horns!", sergeant's voice was followed by voices of other soldiers who saw that Billy was struggling to subdue the goat. Finally all soldiers surrounded the goat and Brew prepared Vaseline for lubrication. *** Everybody got their share of entertainment, everybody but Billy Smith who as he was ordered was holding the goat by the horns. "Now private let her go", said the sergeant good-heartedly, "this girl took some beating today and she took it like a… ", he was looking for a right word, "like a true goat. Now don't look at me like this Private", his voice revealed some disciplinary overtones, "You just came from the mainland. You'll get your share some other time". *** "That's not fair!", Billy Smith was sharing his frustration with Pearson, another private who was the most amicable towards him on the island. "How come everybody gets to bang her, but me?" "Came on man, hold your horses", Pearson was trying to calm Billie down. "You'll get your turn the next time. They always treat newbies unfairly; happened to me too. And look at me now." "But it's already not the first time. Sergeant Welsh just always makes fun of me", Billy kept on complaining, "he'd never let me close to her." "He will, Billy, he will. Then again…", Pearson pondered, "all you have to do is to go uphill when the sergeant is busy.", he continued in the conspiratorially tone. "Would you spot me?" "Don't worry, Billy, I'll spot you". "When can we do it?" "Well even tomorrow…" "Appreciate this man!" "No problem, man. My pleasure…" *** "Any incidents on Rygels?", Major Zott said quickly and almost automatically, just to be thorough, "I suppose none as usual." "There was a little incident on Rygel IX, Major", Lieutenant Park was holding a smile. "What was that?" "The new soldier, Private Smith… Well, he was… doing a goat Sir" "So?" "Well he picked the ugliest one!" Major Zott looked down trying to wrestle his laugh in front of a subordinate officer, but then overpowered by it he laughed loudly showing his perfect white teeth. He finally stopped and wiped out the tears of joy from his eyes. "Tell Welsh to give private a hundred push ups. A soldier should have a good judgment!" |
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| Incident On Rygel IX by notmanos@yahoo.com |
#9 of 14 |
| 1096 words | |
| It was when Roddy brought out the papier mache Greeg
head that the argument started. "There were no Greegs in episode eighteen!" Mark snapped, throwing down his Captain Johanson toupee in disgust. It laid on the cement floor of the musty garage like a road kill gerbil. "Yes there was," Roddy replied, stiffening as he clung to the homemade Greeg head like his most prized possession. "In issue eighteen of the Dillet run -" "We are not doing the comic," Meryl interrupted crossly. This was an old argument, and ate at her like battery acid. "They are not canon!" "But DeGarmo said in an interview of StarJournal, issue one twenty two, that -" But Meryl didn't even let Roddy finish defending himself. "DeGarmo ruined Space Explorers!" She exclaimed, glaring at him like he was the most insane Earthman she had ever met. "He made them attack the Sk' Edidians! He killed Freetac!" "He brought him back!" Roddy argued. "As a hologram!" She replied, giving him a look that seemed to indicate she had just scraped him off the bottom of her shoe. Andrew sighed as he retrieved the blue paper bound copy of the script from his workbench. He had sent his eighteen dollars in to the production company seven weeks ago to get this, the official shooting script for Space Explorers episode eighteen, "Incident on Rygel IX". It had been his favorite episode before, but now he loved it even more, as the script had two pages of dialogue that was cut from the episode for lack of time. Great pages too, between his favorite characters, Captain Johanson and Freetac ( pre - death ), and Freetac and Lyvaria. He had a small thrill reading those pages, knowing that he was among the chosen few to know those scenes even existed. But what was with the "pronunciation guide" at the front of the script? Okay, he could see the actors maybe needing it for "xedimium" and "anti - plutonarium disassembler relay" if all the syllables threw them off, but who needed to know the correct way to pronounce "Sk' Edidian", or even "Lyvaria"? What were they doing on the show if they had never watched it? "That bastard pushed Eddings out," Meryl said, still on an angry tangent. Roddy should have known better than to defend DeGarmo, the new executive producer - Meryl's antipathy towards him and his "destruction" of John Dexter's "universe" was well known to anyone who had attended a convention with her, or stopped by her blogger site. "And then replaced her with that Barbie doll, Lydie Dupre, and her two enormous, silicone talents." "Hey, Lydie is a good actress!" Roddy snapped, putting his Greeg head down on the cement step, leading into the kitchen. He ignored Meryl's loud, derisive snort, and continued defending the actress he had an unequivocal crush on. "Did you watch her performance in episode thirty nine, "Cry For Me, Oh Stars?". She brought me to tears." "Why? Because you caught your dick in your zipper after you finished beating off?" Meryl replied. "Hey, whoa, stop," Mark said, immediately inserting himself between both of them and holding up his hands, hoping to stop things before they became nuclear. "Maybe we shouldn't do this," Andrew admitted, paging idly through the script once more. He'd read it so often all the neatly type pages were dog eared, and the back cover had the mark of a terminal bend in it. Every year for the past three, they had performed a scene from a classic episode of Space Explorers to open up the Galacticon, the biggest annual science fiction convention in the tri - state area. They were always received well, and they got a great thrill out of it themselves, being the characters - however badly - for a few moments in time. He knew they probably seemed sad to people, adults acting out roles in a television show. He was an IT worker for Bradshaw Longstreet; Meryl was a bank teller down at First National; Mark ( her husband, belying the old geek stereotype that they were always single ) was a computer technician for Qwest; and Roddy was a librarian. All intelligent, well educated people not yet on psycho - therapeutic drugs, and yet two weeks out of last three years, they rehearsed and prepared an eight minute sketch based on a scene from a t.v. show about Humans and aliens in space in the year 4597. It used to be fun. They all met originally at Galacticon, waiting in line to get Jason Meldrick's autograph, and later on, at a Chinese restaurant down the street, they cemented their friendship and their mildly crazed fandom. Their lives didn't revolve around the show - not precisely - but their friendship did, and perhaps that was the problem, the fatal flaw that doomed it. Television - like life - was inherently unstable. People came and went, quality varied, and, like friendships, had peaks and valleys. And as the show bottomed out in creativity, it seemed their alliance seemed to bottom out as well. Meryl hated the new creative regime, and Mark went along with her. Roddy - like most of the male audience ( himself included, if he was to be perfectly honest ), lusted after Lydie Dupre, and refused to say anything bad about the show. Andrew wasn't that far gone: reading this script was proof that the show used to be more intelligently written. But how could a stupid show become the be all and end all of their relationship? He had to admit he never saw the strain at first, the flaws;it was a steady erosion that was hard to see until the damage was done. Now he found himself mourning a friendship he was still technically engaged in, at least for now. "What do you mean we shouldn't do this?" Mark said. "I thought this was your favorite episode." Somehow being misinterpreted didn't surprise him. "It is, but - " He paused, trying to think of the right words. Oh, what he wouldn't give for a decent screenwriter right now. But looking at Roddy's wounded expression - and Meryl's annoyed one - Andrew lost what fragile courage he had. With a sigh, he looked down at the worn script in his hands, and suggested, "Why don't we start from the beginning?" He wished that were possible in the real life. Could he even go through this, one more time? It wasn't fun anymore. Oh well. Every show had a final performance - why couldn't a friendship? |
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| Incident On Rygel IX by Matthew Carroll mattrock@softhome.net |
#10 of 14 |
| 1841 words | |
| Coincidentally, the time in which my life has seemed to
pass before me is overwhelmingly disorienting – and when I consider how
often I feared for myself out of anxiety and concern, I have only shame to
dwell upon. You may scoff at my words, but I speak only truth; and that which
is so inconceivable began when God rose from the waters of the great Pacific,
and struck his wrath upon the populations across the globe. It seems as if all
my worries and those of my neighbors brought about this disaster, and since the
time when such events unfolded, friends have been slaughtered and family
members strewn into oblivion. I know it is now impossible to impede upon fate,
but I had once proclaimed, as many heathens have in the very face of God, that
I will not give up my life so easily. For this, my friends and I were rewarded
with perpetual horror and nightmares, cast and abandoned on the endless
labyrinth-prison simply referred to as Rygel IX. I cannot say whether or not it
was at all worth the effort. "Just get in the damn shower," Jake says to me, his wired eyes jumping to and fro nervously, impatiently. There are two others here in the bathroom with my friend and I: a repulsive brown-haired woman whom I have never seen before and an equally unfamiliar man boasting a gaudy hat. It is similar to those of the old-world Mexican sombreros, but with brighter colors and impossible weavings of straw. They stand over the toilet – and sink, guarding the pipes from the horrible creatures which rise from them when water flows in this prison. I know these two are Jake’s friends, and I trust them, but I still fear that the noise of the shower shall give our location away to greater, uglier beasts than those we are familiar with. I nod quickly and disrobe, entering the shower stall. Slowly I turn the faucet to hot and water streams from the shower head. The water is intensely satisfying – I haven’t been this warm in months. I haven’t felt so fresh in so long of a time that I can’t even describe the ecstasy of being under clean, scalding water. I neglect to pick up the bar of soap on the dish near the floor of the tub because the water alone washes the grime away from my skin, for the most part. I am also in a rush, here, in the shower; with every moment I spend dawdling under the warm water, I risk the chance that God’s minions will find me. I rub fiercely at my skin and run my hands through my hair. I hear Jake grunt loudly and he swats with his hand at the shower curtain. "What are you doing in there? Hurry it up!" he barks. I want to reply with an equally nasty comment but decide against it. I’m in too much bliss to be arguing with him. Every second is precious to me now. Then there comes a shrill gust of laughter from beyond the curtain – some scream of a mutated little devil – and before I know it my comrades are all commanding me to turn off the faucet so that the water will no longer flow through the pipes. It is my supposition that the shadows have arrived. Up through the plumbing is how they enter – and the creatures can’t bother you unless you’re running water in any part of the prison, because they follow the flow up through the pipes. The anxiety of not being able to clean oneself, always worrying when a demon might appear from the toilet and petrify you with fright; this is only a small portion of my punishment for rebelling against God. It’s not as horrible as the plague I’ve seen apparent on others’ faces or the bleeding walls during the hours of light. It’s just that the shadows are so grotesque and wretched. Words alone cannot describe their wickedness and the sheer dreadfulness they stir into a human’s soul. I recall the first time I laid eyes on one – it was Jake’s turn to shower, and several of us crowded around the toilet, awaiting the first sign of an interloper. The beast’s face, like a sniveling human infant with blisters and deformations – oh, I cannot even begin to describe such wickedness. It was then I realized this prison was truly God’s very own, and things unimaginable to humans would inevitably lead me to lunacy. Now, as I swing the shower curtain over, I see one of the hideous demons crawling from the toilet bowl, licking its lips as if it planned to leap and latch onto my face. The person whom I once thought to be a woman unleashes a bellow of pure fury, but that of the masculine type, striking the little black creature with a baseball bat on the flat of its head. I am more confused of this person’s gender than of the nature of these cankerous ghouls, but I put the thought from my mind. I don’t even take a second to hop into my ragged pants – I only pick up the crow bar resting near the shower mat and swing at the creatures rising from the toilet. They creep out like little demon children climbing over obstacles on a playground, intent on reaching the very top. Their beady eyes are void of color and life, and those haunting faces – the archaic smile, slimy teeth, the squirming, ethereal skin – all are reminiscent of infants of my own species but it is as if they are animated; merely artificial. The sharpened hook of my crow bar rips through the cheek of one of the little bastards and it writhes on the floor in agony. Their flesh is just as real as mine, regardless of their wraithlike appearance. A third monster rises and swipes at Jake’s leg, leaving three tears just above his shin on his left pant leg. He snarls and guts the little wretch with a steak knife that he managed to find in the kitchen. By now we’re all frantically shaking with a false sense of safety for the time being, but the water flow has subsided and for now God’s minions have no conduit in which to reach us. I reach over to my towel and gently dry my hair and skin, then put on my shirt and pants. The others watch me closely. My senses are still keen because I don’t know if anything else will happen of horrible nature. We are all out of breath. My crowbar has disappeared. Aghast, I fall to the floor and search frantically on the ground. I do not believe my eyes, as my weapon has simply vanished before me. Had it fallen into another dimension? Jake and the others come closer to me; they place their hands around me to help me up, muttering to me in my mind-blown stupor. Jake keeps his hands on my arms, and aims me toward the door where he gives me a push. The man or woman – whatever gender it is – with the brown hair is shaking its head, mumbling something to the one wearing the sombrero. "We’re taking you to your room now," Jake says to me very coldly, standing from the pool of gore nonchalantly as if he took no notice to it. I’m led down corridor upon corridor, now, into the heart of Rygel IX, and I would tell you that I recognize these walls, but I do not. Every trip out of my cell seems to take me on another mind boggling voyage, for I have surely never stepped this far into the depths of the prison. I ask Jake if he knows where we are and he replies with a taut nod, his expression sympathetic and calm. Thinking back to the bathroom, I wish to myself that my friends are not mad at me for summoning the ghouls again. I look back to Jake’s face, trying my best to look concerned, and he merely gives me the same counterfeit smile that I’ve seen on occasions before. We make several more seemingly-random turns down the hallways, and I take notice that the walls have started to bleed. I say nothing to the others because I sense they have grown used to it as well. We halt at a door, and the person whom I cannot tell is a man or a woman and the other fellow depart while Jake accompanies me inside. There is an old discolored mattress in the corner, its sheets stained and covered in filth I cannot imagine. The white tile floor reflects the only visible light in the room – a barred window, much too high for me to reach. I would truly like to see the day sky again some time soon. Jake sighs, and tells me to sit down on the mattress. I comply. "Do you know where we are now?" he asks me, and taps a hidden microphone under his chin. "Rygel Nine," I reply casually, shrugging. "And this is my cell." Jake smirks and sighs again. "And you’ve still no recollection of how you ended up here?" I pause, hesitating to reply. I’m overwhelmed with confusion now because after giving it some thought, I cannot put a finger on how much time has passed since I’ve been locked up in this forsaken palace. "I suppose I am reaping the consequences of disobeying God. And you as well, I’d imagine." Jake emits a short gust of laughter. "No, no," he says, smiling, and very softly, "you have been put here because not even God understands you." It was that moment – when Jake turned his back and left my room – did I begin to question my existence, but only after I heard the doorknob lock and latch. Jake – the scoundrel whom I thought was my companion but in truth was merely a pawn of God – his words were the fiercest pinch ever, and after thinking to myself for some time, I lifted up my journal and began to record these words you are reading now. They are only the testimony of a fool, a blind man in a world of beings with no need for vision. I shall excuse God on His part, not because I forgive him for this poisoned fate but because what Jake said is true: God does not understand me. He has not won this bizarre game, no; I admit that I succumb to His ignorance, but I possess the trump card. I’ve no motivation to discover truth any longer. I’ve taken my share of surreal events and happenings, gone undeniably mad in the process, and on this sheet of paper I declare my epiphany to all. Disorder shall be scrawled as my epitaph, and today I shall embrace death. Welcome death. No one can take away your right to die. |
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| Incident at Royal IX by Julie Thomas-Zucker dkmerlin61@juno.com |
#11 of 14 |
| 1167 words | |
| Jolted by the noise, Raf sat up. Oh, how I wished that
airport wouldclose he thought. I would need to find myself a new bridge if
thiscontinued. I just couldn't sleep this way. Another plane passed
overheadcausing Raf to clench his fists. How he wished something would happen
tothat woman manager. She was the cause of all his problems. That morning Raf met with his "neighbors", those who shared his block."Have you heard that, that woman wants to open our airport to jets? Ican't even sleep the way it is now. What do you think?" "It really doesn't matter what we think. Who will listen to a bunch ofhomeless people about this issue? They won't listen to us about anythingelse why this?" one of them replied. Raf knew his friends were right. He also realized there wasn't anythinghe could do about it. He'd heard the pilots talking and knew that theyapproved. He also knew that the city leaders planned to hold a citymeeting to discuss the problem, tonight. He planned to go. He made a tripto the Goodwill store to get some clean, new clothes. At the meeting, Raflearned that others shared his concerns. Others who lived near theairport complained of the noise and the possibility of accidents andterrorism. They tried very hard to convince the city to disallow theairport to change the size of the planes using that particular airport.As often happened with city hall, the people failed. The city allowed thepilots to land their jets there. The people decided to continue the fight. The change wouldn't happen foranother month so they decided to get residents to sign a petition to stopthis. They wanted the city to understand that many who lived thereopposed the idea of allowing large planes and jets entrance to theairport. Raf volunteered to write the newspapers and made flyers if hecould have access to the volunteer's computers. Raf conducted interviewson both sides first with the supporters, then with the opposition. Helearned that the supporters believed the new airport would draw moretourism and create more jobs. Raf began to see their reasons forsupporting the new policy but he still wanted his silence. He feared thatmore planes would keep him awake longer. He also feared that more peoplemight make his trips around town longer and more crowded. When he had the article written, he took it to the newspaper office. Theeditor agreed to run it, but only parts of it. The full story would omitthe opposition. The editor supported this issue so they wouldn't run thewhole thing. Raf took it to another office with the same results. Hedecided to give the article to those who shared his opinion. But though they tried many avenues, the petitions and other ideas justwouldn't sway the minds of the city leaders. They continued to approvethe new change. This caused the homeless people and those who lived closeto the airport to become angry. Among themselves they decided to scarethe airport manager, Britt, so much that she left. One of them wouldfollow Britt. Another would send her notes threatening her life. Anotherwould call her and just breathe into the receiver. When none of these ploys worked, Raf's friends decided to kill her. Rafdisagreed. He didn't want any trouble with the authorities. For a while,he disappeared. He wanted nothing to do with this. But his friends hadother ideas. They encouraged him to meet them across town at the Royal IXsubway. He refused though. They persisted until he agreed. He toldhimself, I just wouldn't let them involve me in their plans. I'll thinkof other things. They're still my friends even if I disagree with t | |