Free Short Stories 2013 Read online

  The talk about his future sounded almost as good as the sequestered debrief, which meant a soft, solo bed in officer’s country and real chow, instead of the gruel and grey walls of the brig he had been expecting to inhabit for the foreseeable future. “That sounds fine, sir.”

  * * *

  What Wilder hadn’t mentioned about Grim’s future was that, in the immediate short term, his trip to Eureka included a one way journey past numerous hatches and checkpoints he’d only seen the outside of, and some of which he had no idea existed. That hasty trip ended in an infirmary more clean and more modern than anything he had ever seen—even in those bullshit technothriller vids where high-tech medical facilities are always sterile white, indirectly illuminated by pale blue and even indigo lights. This sick bay made those slick Hollywood sets look like piss-poor imitations.

  However, surface glitz did not change the invariable indignities of being in a medical facility. He was poked, prodded, run under, through or in front of a bewildering variety of machines, filled with fluids, and then had those or his own fluids drawn, drained, or deposited.

  At the end of it all, the medtechs left him alone with chow that was better than what he was used to, but nowhere near so fine as he had imagined, and dressed in a gown that would have embarrassed a half-witted three-year-old. Still, he was making fair progress with the small portions and was reflecting that no matter how you dressed it up, you just couldn’t make jello look or taste new or improved, when the privacy tone chimed. “Who is it?” Grim growled.

  “Darryl Wilder.”

  Oh, shee-it. “Please come in, sir. Sorry if I sounded impatient. I was—”

  Wilder, a little blond hair still glinting dull gold amidst the full collection of silver, grinned and waved airily as the door slid open. And now Grim was really scared: he’d never seen Wilder smile. He’d never seen anyone that high in the military-intel food chain smile. Not unless they were trying to scam you or deliver bad news. Both of which could be imminent, Grim figured.

  Wilder sat beside Grim’s bed. “How do you feel, Master Sergeant Grimsby?”

  “Uh, fine sir.”

  “Good. But you won’t in a little while, I’m afraid.”

  “The rads, sir?”

  “I’m afraid so. Nowhere near a lethal or permanently debilitating dose, but the next week doesn’t promise to be a lot of fun. Of course, we can’t really know how your body will react: radiation effects are a bit of a wild card at this level of exposure.”

  Well, that was true. But there were other issues that had clearer numbers attached to them. Grim steeled himself and asked the question he had hoped he’d never need to ask: “What are my long-term health prospects, sir?”

  Wilder’s gaze became thoughtful. “Realistically, no one can say. But the actuarial studies say that your little jaunt took something like seven to ten years off your life. Of course, you could be paying that price in five years—or never: it’s a crap shoot.”

  Easy to say when you’re not the one whose crap has been shot full of atom-sized holes. But Grim only said, “I see, sir.”

  “Well, I’m not sure you do, Sergeant. We’re on the verge of putting a number of post-exposure radiation-repairing drugs on trial that could sufficiently improve those odds.”

  “But sir, how could that be? I always heard that rad exposure was like spilt milk: you could cry over it, but there wasn’t much use doing so, because the damage was already done.”

  Wilder nodded. “Except now there are therapies that may make it possible to replenish the lost milk.”

  “Sir?”

  “Okay, Sergeant Grimsby: I’ll abandon the analogies. Straight talk: third generation gene therapies have led to a new line of drug research that can spur the body’s intracellular mechanisms to detect and perform limited repairs upon telomere damage.”

  Grim goggled. “Really?”

  “Yes, really.”

  “Well, then sign me up for the trials—sir.”

  Wilder smiled. “Well, about that: I have good news and I have bad news.”

  See? When the big bosses smile there’s always a hitch . . . “Well, I think you’ve already shown me the good news, sir: there’s a way to repair some or all of the damage I sustained from the CME. But I can’t see the downside, not from where I’m sitting in this hospital bed.”

  Wilder sighed, the smile diminished but did not disappear. “The downside, Sergeant, is that you can’t be part of the trial.”

  “What? Why not? I should be perfect for it, given what just—“

  “Sergeant, it has nothing to do with your condition. It has to do with your location.”

  “Well—yes, sure, sir: I don’t suppose they want a test subject out on Mars, and at a secure government facility, no less. But like you said, I might be in line for a decoration. If so, then I’m guessing I might be able to ask for a long enough leave to be part of the trial—”

  “Sergeant, where are you? Right now, and precisely: where are you?”

  “Sir? I’m right here on Eureka.”

  “More precise than that.”

  “Well, let’s see: after going through those high-security hatches, I’m probably beyond the primary ops hub and in the—“ Oh. Grimsby’s flesh became very cold very quickly. I’m inside the Restricted Activity Zone. Shit. “I understand, sir—but honestly, what have I seen? There’s no reason to keep me under wraps when I haven’t even—“

  Wilder shook his head. “No exceptions, Sergeant Grimsby. Personnel who enter the Restricted Activity Zone must remain sequestered for the duration of the project’s secrecy. I believe that is part of the speech you yourself have been giving to incoming security personnel for almost three years now, isn’t it?”

  Grim felt that he might throw up. “Yes, sir.” Which really means, “Yes, sir, I will sit here, or in some safe-house or secure base, for months or years, waiting to see what will happen first: the Big Secret becomes common knowledge, or one of my cells goes haywire and does me in.”

  “So,” finished Wilder. “Being part of the trials is out of the question.” Then his voice changed, became almost whimsical. “Of course, if I were you, I wouldn’t want to be part of the trial, anyway—not when I also have the option of getting the final, proven drug, instead.”

  Grimsby looked up. “Uh . . . what are you saying, sir? That the Big Secret is really a time machine, and you’re going to give me a quick ride into the future?”

  “No: as you guessed and I confirmed, the Big Surprise really is a starship. But that doesn’t stop me from giving you a ride into the future. A one way ride, however.”

  Grim frowned, then felt his heart rise even as his stomach sank. “Cryogenic sleep?”

  Wilder nodded, and the touch of whimsy was stronger; it was even in his face, now. “Exactly. We can schedule you to be revived only after the drug trials are over and a proven compound exists.”

  “Can you really do that? I mean, I thought that long-duration cold sleep was dangerous for someone who is, well, injured or at risk. That the shock can kill them.”

  “Sergeant, what was the first thing I asked you when I entered this room?”

  Oh. Yeah. “You asked me how I felt, sir.”

  “Still feel as fine as you did then?”

  “No effects yet, sir,” Grim reflected. “Well, not from the radiation, anyway.”

  Wilder nodded. “You’re feeling conflicted because you don’t know what will be left of your old life when you are ultimately reanimated.”

  Grim nodded, but had to admit: how much was he really leaving behind? His one ill-advised marriage—an idiotic furlough fling that had ended the next year in a childless divorce. And he didn’t have much family to speak of. Certainly no one who went out of their way to keep track of Grimsby Elder. And hell, he’d get a chance to see the future—a future with starships and journeys to other worlds, and wonders he had not even imagined.

  Which, he realized as he looked up and met Wilder’s eyes, was where the o
lder man’s whimsy came from: it was actually a kind of amicable envy. “Sure, sir,” Grim finally answered. “Cold sleep sounds like a fine option. And I guess that it will certainly ‘take me out of circulation’ as per the specifications for anyone who enters the Restricted Activity Zone.”

  Wilder nodded. “Yes; it is indeed all according to spec, Sergeant. Now: any questions before we prepare you? We don’t want to waste any time; the doctors need to start slowing your cellular functions before your body starts registering the rads.”

  Grimsby thought for a moment. “Just one question, sir. The starship—“

  “The Prometheus,” Wilder supplied with a smile.

  “Yes, the Prometheus. Why make it a Big Secret at all, sir? Why put it behind the black curtain for the last five years? Up until then, everyone knew the Commonwealths were working on advanced spaceflight technology. But then all of a sudden, the project went dark, and the other political blocs started raging at us to share our research. Why not have the whole planet in on the effort?”

  Wilder smiled, waved a hand at the door, inviting Grim to rise and follow him. “That’s an interesting question, Sergeant, and one that the rest of the world has been asking for a few years now. And because you’re going where you can’t tell anyone until it no longer matters, I can share the answer with you: we did it to piss them all off.”

  “What? Why would you want to do that?”

  “To make them push harder on their own, Sergeant. You’ve trained recruits, you know how it is: you give them an easy way, they take it. Pretty similar for any kind of larger achievement, too. By being forced to conduct their own research, to take their own chances, the other blocs have pushed forward the sum total of human knowledge on how to build what Robert Wasserman is calling a ‘shift drive.”

  “And together with them, you’ve solved the problems?”

  Wilder laughed. “Oh no; we’ve already solved the problems on our own.”

  “What?”

  “We conducted the first successful trials about a month ago. I suspect some intel on that leaked, and might have triggered the attack today. I suspect it was an attempt to break our research momentum, force us to rebuild before we can advance further.”

  “Then what was to be gained from pissing off the other blocs into accelerating their own programs?”

  “It gave humanity a number of different perspectives upon the same set of problems. Sure, we’ve already built a drive that works. But when we finally share our information with them, and vice versa, humanity will be able to construct a far more refined second generation drive. And besides, because they think we’re holding out on them, they’ll rush out into the stars as quickly as possible, determined not to be left behind.”

  “But that could start a . . . an interstellar stampede, a land-grab frenzy.”

  In response to which Wilder only smiled broadly.

  “You mean, you want that to happen?”

  Wilder nodded. “Of course we do. Look, Sergeant, for reasons I can’t go into, we—all of humanity—needs to get out among the stars as quickly, as vigorously, as possible. Nothing will achieve that faster than an initial phase of intense, even fearful, international competition to do so.”

  Grimsby grunted as they left the infirmary section and started moving into what looked like a cross between a factory floor and landing bay. “I hope that doesn’t ignite a war, sir.”

  “Me, too, Sergeant. It’s not without risk—but it’s a pretty manageable risk when you can simply turn around and give—literally give—your competitors almost everything they wanted. And you’ll be there to see what comes of it all. Maybe from a planet circling a distant star, if you want to give us a release to send you out beyond this system.”

  “Yes, sir. I’d—I’d like that a lot, sir.”

  “Good. Now, one last thing about your action earlier today.” They were approaching rows of lab benches, the Cochrane’s eager technicians staring at Grim, nodding, whispering behind cupped hands. “About the experimental weapon you used. Its primary engineers are standing right over there and they need to find out if there were any failures or shortcomings with the Cochrane. Of course, given your pressing date with a cold cell, it turns out we can’t wait long enough to let them debrief you, now. So I promised them I’d ask for a performance assessment before we started prepping you. Sergeant, did the Cochrane fall short on any of its design parameters? Or did it perform to spec?”

  Grim looked over at the lab bench on which the gun itself was resting, like a revered object on an altar surrounded by eager acolytes in white coats. “Yes sir, it performed to spec.” Just like I’m doing now. Then—when he was sure no one was looking—he grinned. And he thought:

  Yeah; definitely to spec.

  Acknowledgements:

  For expert opinion and information on the topic of solar weather in general, and the effects of coronal mass ejections in specific, the author gratefully acknowledges the input of: Dr. Gordon Holman, NASA Goddard Space Flight Center; Lt. Col. Peter Garretson, USAF; and Russell Howard, a principle investigator in the USN’s SECCHI (Sun-Earth Connection Coronal Heliospheric Investigation) initiative.

  Skyspark

  A Short Story of Boundary Series

  By Ryk E. Spoor

  i. Worldshake

  Blushspark clung tightly to Bluntspear's broad, rough back; the big, stolid haulfin gripped even more tightly onto the mass of wild spearweed, as the world roiled around her. Spearweed. Good choice, Bluntspear, good choice. That won't break off in your arms.

  Of course, that wouldn't save them if this part of Hotwall collapsed. She could hear the deep-thunder splitting of rock in the distances, a sudden shrieking of a vent pinched almost shut; her skin visioned the panicked movement of flakefish and giant orvanel, discharges of life-signals bright and urgent; she thought she picked up Jetgrab's cursing from the other side of the valley. And above all, the sharp, shattering, groaning howl as the sky broke far above.

  This is the worst worldshake I've ever felt. Worse than anything the Elders, even Steadyglow, ever told about. Worse than anything I've read about in the Archives!

  A shockwave of current erupted from the depths below, and she felt both her and Bluntspears' grips beginning to slip. No! If we let go –

  If they let go, the currents could carry them anywhere – smash them to pieces against rocks, suffocate them in concentrated feedfumes, even into a fresh vent to burn alive or to the sky where they might vanish.

  The clump of spearweed began to lift, telling her that part of the bedrock had come loose.

  But before their anchorage was entirely torn away, the current hesitated, shifted, and began to die down. The water was now so clouded that she could barely make out Bluntspear's panicked flickerings under her own body, less than a quarter-spear from her higheye. She chirruped and fluttered against him, reassuring him with bright flashes. "Good Bluntspear. GOOD work. We're going to be okay."

  The world was still echoing all around with the movement of sky and continuing fall and settle of the ground. But in a moment or two, she could pick out a familiar long-voice hum. "Blushspark? Blushspark!"

  "I'm all right, Jetgrab," she answered, unable to keep a small, uncontrolled tremble from her resonances. "You?"

  A vibration of terrified amusement. "The cave I was hiding in collapsed but I got out." The voice was hard to understand at this range, but they'd been playmates almost since they hatched, so she could make out the words.

  The thought of being inside a cavern when that happened. . . She shuddered, her body vibrating from the end of her tailgrips all the way to the tips of her fingers. "Spirits and Ancestors!"

  "No harm." He tried to make it sound casual, not succeeding very well. "Lot more exciting than our game of Earth Against Sky usually is."

  She couldn't argue that. "We'd better get back; I can't hear the pod from here, so there must be a lot of turbulence and maybe heatwaver coming up."

  "There is. Concentrate on the highban
d – where we look for zinties, about – and you'll be able to hear the waver." "We'll have to go all the way around Hotwall, I think." His voice was suddenly uncertain. "You're the one who lives in the Archives, Blush… is this as bad as I think?"

  She wanted to reassure him, but she couldn't lie. "This felt worse than anything I've read about."

  In a tone so quiet she could barely make it out through the still-chaotic noise around, he said, "Then the pod…"

  The horrifying possibility had already occurred to her. "We can't tell. We have to hope that it's just the disruption."

  His tones firmed up; "You're right. But they'll want us home fast."

  She'd been getting enough echoes from him now that she could catch his space fairly well. "You're a long ways ridgeward from me; wouldn't make much sense for us to join up now. You take the far end and I'll take the near."

  "You sure?"

  "I've got Bluntspear, remember? Even a full-size Orekath isn't going to just charge him without warning. You take care of yourself."

  "You too. See you back at Seven Vents." A hesitation, then, "And if… well, if anything's gone wrong, we meet at Twinevent, okay?"

  She listened; the rippling pulse of Twinevent was still clear, probably above the worst of the disruption. "Okay."

  They tried to keep up their communications, but once they started going around Hotwall the resonances died off. Might even be an inversion around the Vent area for a while; that will make long-distance talking hard and maybe smelly breathing, too.

  She guided Bluntspear carefully, using echopings sparingly; despite the massive haulfin's stalwart presence, she knew it would be exceedingly unwise to draw attention to her presence here, alone and separated from a pod. The worldshake might make predators hide or lose interest. . . or might have put them to a fever-pitch of panic and hostility, prepared to defend territory or attack any threat without thought or care. She wasn't exactly a warrior – she was more interested in building things, exploring things, thinking things, and like Jetgrab had said, reading the Archives and understanding things – and this was a pretty scary situation.