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November 6, 2011

From “Moreno’s Ranch” by Souline J. Rosas

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“They settled the matter like any gentleman would, with a duel.”

“You mean…fifty paces? Pistols at dawn?”

The old man laughed, which quickly turned into a rheumy cough. “No, both your grandfather and Moreno were level-headed enough to know that a murder would involve the police and complicate the ownership of the land. They shot skeet at a local hunters’ club known to both. Each man put up his own skeet bid: your grandfather his land holdings, Moreno a quarter of his.”

“That doesn’t sound fair.”

“The Morenos, then as now, had large holdings. A quarter of their lands were more than equal to your grandfather’s holdings.”

“What happened then?”

“After all the efforts to find a fair solution, Moreno tipped the odds in his own favor through subterfuge. He replaced your grandfather’s clay skeet with hardened ones that wouldn’t register a hit.”

 

November 5, 2011

From “Major Tōakenkyūjo and the Exiled Mountain” by Nokin Kobayashi, translated and adapted by Irene York

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Major Istsbo Tōakenkyūjo, originally from Takao Prefecture, was the highest-ranking officer to have survived on Araido Island after sea routes to the Home Islands had been severed and the resultant starvation and typhus outbreaks. His radio transceiver had received news of the Soviet offensive as well as the Emperor’s speech to the nation, but the authenticity of either was unclear.

It was evident enough that the Soviets were up to something, as their minesweepers had been active in the strait between Kamchatka and Ariado, even straying into Japanese waters. Maj. Tōakenkyūjo’s orders, inherited from the deceased Col. Oyakoba, were also clear: Araido Island was to be held for the Emperor at any cost.

During long and restless nights, Maj. Tōakenkyūjo and what remained of his staff had listened to tales from Private Tadashi, the unit’s Ainu translator. According to Tadashi, Araido Island had once been a peak on mainland Kamchatka, until the neighboring mountains grew jealous of its beauty and cast it to the sea. That, he said, explained the island’s perfect appearance, which Ito Osamu had compared very favorably to Mt. Fuji, as well as the existence of Lake Kurile in Kamchatka–the hole that had been left behind.

Maj. Tōakenkyūjo was faced with a choice: defile the ancient and perfect peak with battle, or defile the Empire with surrender. Surviving accounts testify that he grappled with the problem for days on end in early August, 1945, before coming to a unique and unprecedented conclusion.

 

November 3, 2011

From “The Diana Distance” by E. C. Geggson

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If you don’t know someone personally, I’ve always found it hard to get broken up about their death. I saw people weeping in the streets when Diana died in that car crash–in Chicago! Never mind that our country had fought a revolution to boot her family out of power; people clearly felt enough of a kinship to weep as if they were close blood relatives. That’s a key piece of background information right there.

The thing is, I normally feel as devastated as anyone else when someone I actually know dies. I went through boxes of tissues after sweet old Nana Cummings passed on. That’s another pretty important piece of information, especially as it makes clear that I’m not some emotionless psychopath unable to feel empathy or pain.

When Cara died though…there was a mismatch. Like two wires got crossed somewhere upstairs or something. I felt detached, sad in a general way but not to the point of tears–as if I’d hardly known her, which was as far from the truth as one could get. Cara had been closer to me than even dear old Nana Cummings, but I couldn’t feel much of anything at all.

 

November 2, 2011

From “Island of Souls” by Joe Kull

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“That’s right. This peninsula–this island–was designed as a massive conductor of spirit energy. It attracts, traps, harnesses. Murder births the power, makes it grow, taints living souls to spread death and destruction.” The Cajun tightened the noose around his own neck.

“But why?” Vincent cried. His words should have been drowned out by the storm, but somehow they carried. “What could you possibly hope to gain?”

“Immortality,” the Cajun said. “That was the plan, at least at first. But things have reached a tipping point, now. The massacre, the bombings, the war…it was too much. The ritual, if performed now, would result in soulstorm, in annihilation! The only hope is to join the flow and hope to direct it.”

“You’re insane!” Schiller cried from below. He tried to train his machine pistol on the Cajun, but the church’s architecture prevented a clean shot.

“Remain among the living much longer and you’ll see exactly what I mean,” the Cajun cackled. “Only the act of self-sacrifice will-”

He was cut short. Two massive, red stains were blossoming out on his white shirt; the Cajun barely had time to regard them with shock before plummeting. Caught in the noose, he swung freely in the church atrium.

Cobh appeared behind him, revolver in hand. “…deliver the power to one who can use it,” he finished.

 

November 1, 2011

From “Bilbao Toms” by Enrique G. Ramirez

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Toms had been a trade-union organizer in Luton when the war broke out, and he chartered the first ship to Spain he could find once news reached him: a tramp steamer from Southampton to Bilbao. On arrival, he found that the advancing Nationalists had cut Bilbao and the Basque Country off from the rest of the Spanish Republic. Denied the ability to join up with the International Brigades, Toms fought and organized as best he could.

As a trained surveyor and architect, Toms was given a position building the Iron Ring–fortifications intended to protect Bilbao from Nationalist assault until Republican troops could break through and link up with the isolated Basque Country. He did this with gusto, developing the laborers under his leadership into an effective and politically active unit known as “los topos de Tomás”–Toms’ Moles.

The local Republican commanders eventually became unsure of Iron Ring architect Alejandro Goicoechea’s loyalty. They therefore contacted Toms and had his men construct a bunker separate from the rest of the fortifications, into which the precious metal holdings of the local Bank of Spain and other valuables were placed to protect them from bombardment.

When, as feared, Goicoechea defected to the Nationalists with the complete blueprints of the fortifications, Toms and his men sealed their vault with explosives. None of them survived the retreat from Bilbao or disastrous Battle of Santander.

The bunker? It remains sealed until today, its exact location a mystery taken to Toms’ grave.

Or is it?

 

October 31, 2011

From “Horror at Ridge Peak Mine” by Luther Frank Robinson

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And the creatures…Shan had called them zombies, and they’d certainly been close enough during the harrowing flight from the open mineshaft. But even then, Bock had noticed features that made their relentless pursuers something other than human: extra limbs, vicious claws, gaping maws in the chest and arms.

Now, with the searchlight on, he could see them in good light for the first time since sunset.

They weren’t the same creatures that had attacked earlier with bare hands or whatever weapons they could flail about. Now only certain tangential features were recognizably human–a hand here, and eye there, a few vestigial tufts of hair visible on the glistening hides of the monstrosities.

Shan’s “zombies” had been evolving, and fast.

And they were swarming about the searchlight beam like moths to a flame.

 

October 30, 2011

From “An Old B-Movie Looks Back on Life” by Kullis M. Hermann

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The movie wound up being well-regarded by aficionados of cult sci-fi, and saw plenty of airplay on late-night TV, cable stations, and film festivals. Especially considering how inexpensive it had been to make, the money was such that Gerald was eventually able to pay back all his creditors even if that gesture had no bearing on his virtual blacklisting within the industry. He made his living as an accountant–balancing the moviemaking ledgers time and again had required that particular skillset–and got the occasional windfall from an in-person appearance or interview.

Gerald was never too proud to accept the money and appear, but it did irk him that the same question came up time and again–it seemed no one ever bothered to do their homework, and they always dwelled on the movie’s so-called technical flaws.

“Why didn’t the actors not wear spacesuits in the outer space scenes?” was a perennial favorite. the interviewers usually assumed that, as a 1950’s moviemaker, Gerald had some kind of naivete about the effects of hard vacuum–this despite the pile of Scientific American magazines he’d had bedside during the screenwriting process.

Gerald always gave the same answer: “I did design spacesuits, and the propmaker and I spent a lot of time building them. But the cast members found them really uncomfortable, and eventually refused to wear them, so it was shoot without them or get a new cast.”

No one ever listened.

 

October 29, 2011

From “The Purgis Audit” by Melody F. Harris-Bawles

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“A word of advice,” the secretary said, drawing Elly aside. “The auditor you’ll be seeing is Mr. Leonard Purgis.”

“So?”

“Mr. Purgis is 77 years old, his wife is dead, and he’s not on speaking terms with his kids,” the secretary continued. “In other words, he’s an old man who’s stayed on long past retirement age and this is the only thing he does.”

Elly shrugged. “Well, good for him.”

“I’m trying to warn you,” the secretary sputtered, frustrated, “if there’s so much as a cent out of place in your records, he’ll find it and then you’ll never hear the end of it. Get another auditor if you can.”

“I’ll take my chances.”

 

October 28, 2011

From “A Universal Problem” by Candace W. Molle

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Video-Audio Intercept
10.180.107.225 16:08:54 -0700
4eab128e.700f.b54ffb90.5c6b
2Qah2dN87-a94PijNNQPg__XMa4
CAGPdH6pRAq3q2dpxiyAbeTZiGk
Subject: [redacted]
From: [redacted]
To: [redacted]
Date: [redacted]
Delivered-To: [redacted]

Partial transcript:

Dr. Leszek NIYSTSKI: I think our problem is a bit more…universal than that.

Robert DUBOIS: I’m not sure I follow. Universal?

Dr. Leszek NIYSTSKI: In your report, you say that Col. Angelo was attempting to modify the hyperspace communications relay to accept input from an unknown power source aboard the stolen vessel.

Robert DUBOIS: That’s correct. I could see that they were trying to make the modifications, but my training is primarily in signals intelligence, not power or propulsion.

Dr. Leszek NIYSTSKI: Did you have the opportunity to examine the stolen vessel?

Robert DUBOIS: Not particularly. I was busy on the array, though my superior brought me into combat to man a support weapon after Jenkins was killed. I could give you a tactical description of the interior, maybe. Nothing more.

Dr. Leszek NIYSTSKI: Would it surprise you to learn that the ship was the testbed for a radical new propulsion source–an artificial singularity?

Robert DUBOIS: A black hole?

Dr. Leszek NIYSTSKI: Of a sort, I suppose. Suffice it to say that connecting such a source to a hyperspace communications array would increase its power by an order of magnitude. Whoever Col. Angelo wished to contact, they must have been very far away indeed.

 

October 27, 2011

From “The Bloody Print” by Albert R. Fostere

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“Whenever he closed his eyes he could see the image of a bloody handprint, like it was burned into his eyelids. The doctors said there was nothing wrong, that it was all in his head. He tried to ignore it, but it was always there, like the spots you see when you stare at a light for too long.”

Ralph made a show of yawning and stretching.

“Then, one day, he came home to find his house empty and his family missing. The door were locked and nothing had been disturbed…aside from one bloody handprint near the basement door–his wife’s.”

“That’s it?” Ralph said. “That’s the best you can do? Give me the flashlight.”

Arnie, who thought that his tale had been a masterpiece of horror, grudgingly surrendered the torch to his competitor and slunk off toward the latrine with only his measly pocket light in hand.

When he got there, Arnie played the light over the whitewashed metal, looking for the handle. Instead, it alighted on something that hadn’t been there in the daylight.

A bloody child-sized handprint.

 

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