by A. K. DuBoff
Just send something back. Anything.
It’s so lonely and dark up here.
—
Stardate 3723.7.20 – Captain Zedara Clement
This thing still work? Hello?
I see the red light. I hope it’s working. Can’t read the transcription anymore. Conroy, for whatever reason, needed the monitor from my logs transceiver to keep your busted ass engine running. Not that I’ve been wanting to read the complete absence of your responses, or my own complaining. What’s it been, nine months since the last entry?
Well, maybe this will be the last, because God-man bless us all, we’re here. This stupid little planet you found is actually here.
Not that I’m sure if it matters.
We tried to turn the sensor array on, but Conroy had filched some parts from that, ostensibly for repairs. Honestly, though, I think that was right before he regressed, so maybe he didn’t even know what he was doing, just going through the motions without understanding the why.
So yeah, all we have are general images to go by. At least the telescopic cameras are still working. It’s green, blue, and white, so that’s a good sign. Looks just about like some old pictures of Earth I found once. Not the brown and brown and brown it was when I left, but back before it went all wrong.
The dark side has some light, but not super much. That’s promising. Even if we are coming now as refugees instead of heroic explorers, maybe there’s a chance we can survive.
But what makes me feel the best is there is nothing floating around it. No ugly debris field of discarded satellites and forgotten rocket bits. Not only does that tell me that they probably have no clue we’re here, but it also means I don’t have to worry about the fact that we don’t have a proper pilot anymore that could fly us through it.
Yeah, both Jerry and Kaitlyn are down with the rock, with over half my crew now.
Fortunately, I got Kaitlyn to show me the gist of flying this junk heap before she went, so when we reach this planet tomorrow, I’ll be able to do the basics. There looks to be a pretty remote area in the southern hemisphere, but not too remote, that will work perfect. I’ll drop the rock, let it do its thing for a week, and then we’ll land and start setting up.
If everything goes well, I’ll be sending my last log in a month. If not, well, I suppose we’re all goners, and if you aren’t, you might as well be, too.
—
Stardate 3723.8.21 – Captain Zedara Clement – Final Log
Well, I got good news, and I got bad news.
I’ll start with the bad news. Regression is permanent. Of the four hundred folk you sent, about one hundred and fifty of us made it.
The good news, though, is the regressed can still be useful!
The landing was a little rough, and this tin can certainly ain’t going back up again, but frankly, it doesn’t need to. The rock fall went well, making a safe area we could set up and get used to this new world, and my estimation of the local wildlife was pretty spot on.
There was a herd maybe not ten miles from where we landed.
I waited a day to see if any of them would come looking while we made sure we could even leave the ship, and sure enough they did.
And this is where we found a use for the regressed.
See, when I opened the hatch, I had no idea of the things I’d forgotten.
The air was cool and crisp, carrying the scents of a clean, healthy world. I had forgotten what that smelled like until then. Right took me back to being a wee girl in the foothills, back before the worst of the rock fall, back before it hit our farm and changed us.
So, dumbstruck as I was, I didn’t even notice the small pack that was watching us. But the regressed did. It’s all they want, you see, the real deal. We’d still been feeding them, just throwing Improbable Meat into the rock hold to keep their strength up. I mean, we had enough, why not?
But they needed the real stuff.
Conroy and Jenkins bolted first, running to where our unseen watchers stared stupidly, and the rest followed.
They didn’t leave much for the rest of us, truth told, and I honestly had my doubts about if we could actually eat this meat, but the regressed seemed strengthen by it. It didn’t bring them back like I’d hoped, but strengthened, nonetheless. Barring any way to actually test it with the machines—yes, my entire pin head science team regressed, you pin heads—we went about making some harnesses and securing the other regressed. We then took five of our new bloodhounds and went to check on this herd.
The homes they made were fairly clever, and showed an understanding of tools that our native herds have since lost. They also had some weapons, but nothing that was too dangerous. A lucky shot took down Kaitlyn, God-man rest her, but in general they just had no idea what they were dealing with. We didn’t give them a chance to figure it out.
It’s almost like they’d never heard of zombies before.
But hey, I’m not one to look easy meat in the mouth, not if the other option is Improbable Meat and its 100% guarantee to not be made of people.
We’re trying to start a new domestic herd, but it’s going to be tough. I guess that is just part of the thrill of being an explorer on a brave, new world. Fortunately, free-range was how Da taught me to farm, and I think we can work with that here, too.
So, pin heads, if you’re even still there, come and get it. Food’s on, and there’s plenty to go around. And if you’re not, oh well. Just means more for us.
This is Captain Zedara Clement, signing off for the last time, and about to go enjoy some delicious, fresh brains.
THE END
— — —
About the Author
Richard Fife is a native of North Carolina, but he is often found around Atlanta, GA, where he helps run two small genre-lit conventions: JordanCon in April and Multiverse Convention in October. While he has been paid to write under various auspices, and has edited anthologies, this is his first publication as simply an author of speculative fiction. Huzzah, as the kids say.
To learn more about Richard’s writing, visit:
www.richardfife.com
THE CAPTAIN’S YACHT
by Marcus Alexander Hart
Rico dashed to an emergency muster station tucked in an alcove between two shops. A panel by its side showed the Sturf glyph for ‘launched’.
“Mertz.”
He cupped his hands to the saucer-sized window set in the heavy door and peered through. There was no lifeboat. There was nothing but the yawning abyss of empty space. Just like all the others. He thumped his fist on the glass.
“Mertz!”
A weary groan croaked from his throat as he rubbed his eyes and leaned back against the door. Cheery pop muzak still echoed through the abandoned promenade deck. The ferrofountains still performed their shows, every hour on the hour. The holoposters still droned through their endless sales pitches, trying to coax passengers into the high-end restaurants. Despite the rolling power brownouts, all systems seemed to be fully functional. But that was no comfort. The ship could self-maintain for a full week even if the entire crew was dead.
And Rico presumed the entire crew was dead.
His rubberized socks gripped the floor as he crept through the ruined deck, carefully avoiding the detritus of hastily discarded shopping. Designer paw covers and fine nitrocigars and necklaces with gemstones the size of ubergrapes. Cafe tables lay overturned and broken. Much of it stained with blood. Mostly purple. Some green. Just a little bit of red.
Rico turned in a slow circle, taking in two levels of storefronts sealed behind the electric sizzle of their forcegates. The Cosmic Queen was on emergency lockdown. He didn’t know why. He didn’t know what had caused this carnage. And he was going to get the hekk off the ship before he found out.
pop-pop-pop! pop-pop!
Rico’s ears pricked up. He knew that sound. That was the sound of… yes!
A feminine figure drifted into view further up the corridor, her head cocked to one side under
the weight of her majestic feather headdress. Rico’s heart went light in his chest.
“Clarizza!” He rushed to her, catching her by her slender shoulders with both hands. “You’re alive!”
He held her at arm’s length and looked her over. Clarizza Fantana. The most dazzling showgirl in the Rico Diamond Revue. Her golden hair fell in waves down her long neck, framing her flawless little face and big dark eyes. So big and so dark. Like a pair of obsidian avocados floating in her pea-soup complexion. The suckers lining her six tentacle legs pop-pop-popped against the marbleine floor. Rico’s jaw tightened. The sound wasn’t unpleasant, as such, but when you have to sing over a dozen Qualexi dancers pop-popping through a kick line twice a day, seven days a week, it starts to get under your skin.
“Are you all right?” Rico asked. Clarizza just stared at him with her empty, black eyes. He gave her a firm shake. “Hello? Cosmic Queen to Clarizza Fantana. Do you copy?”
The alien beauty straightened up and sucked a breath. Her enormous eyes blinked once, then again, and her graceful, humanoid arms raised to rest her palms on Rico’s chest. He smiled.
“Ah. There’s my girl. Rizza, what happened here?”
Clarizza blinked again and smiled back. But it wasn’t a true smile. Her face remained slack while the corners of her mouth lifted. And kept lifting until her green skin pulled taut and began to split, ripping a lightning-bolt crack through her chin as her jawbone tore right through.
Rico shrieked and tried to stumble away, but Clarizza’s fingers clamped down on his plastic pajama shirt and held him tight. He pounded his fists against her flat, cephalopodan chest, but she just pulled him closer, coiling her tentacle legs around his bony human thighs.
“Get off me!” he cried. “Get off!”
Clarizza’s jaw unhinged and the perfect white pearls of her teeth elongated and splayed like porcupine quills from the gaping wreck of her face. Rico’s hips released a sickening snap, igniting a blaze of pain through his body. Clarizza’s jaws gnashed, splattering gobbets of her own cold blood on his face. He tried to resist, but agony sapped the strength from his skinny arms. His wail raised to a piercing falsetto as his body threatened to snap at the crotch like a wishbone. In a moment of gruesome clarity, Rico knew this primal scream would be his final encore.
A violent crack twisted Clarizza’s head sideways, launching a spew of drool and teeth across a nearby storefront. Rico sucked a breath as his tentacled attacker went limp and hit the floor like a fumbled plate of sushi.
With a whimpering cry, the aging crooner wriggled free of her serpentine limbs and scrambled away. Searing pain slapped his brain around his skull, but he managed to pick out a shape through his daze. A hulking figure standing over the motionless heap of downed showgirl.
It was a woman. A human woman. Two legs, two arms, two mammal parts. All of them in the right place and symmetrical. Her pink gingham shirt and well-worn denim pants were filled to capacity with long, lean muscle. She hefted a double magnum of cheap Centauri wine like an overweight cricket bat, ready to knock another dent in the rogue Qualexi’s skull if necessary.
It was not necessary.
The woman lowered her weapon and muttered, “I’m sorry.”
Rico put a hand over his pounding heart. “It’s all right. We weren’t close.”
His savior didn’t lift her eyes from Clarizza’s body. “I was apologizing to her. She didn’t deserve this.”
Blinding agony scalded through Rico’s hip as he forced himself to his feet. “Didn’t deserve what?” he hissed through his clenched jaw. “What happened to her?”
The woman’s head swiveled, scanning the deck. “Not here. We have to keep hidden or the—” She glanced at him, her panic snuffed out. “Rico?”
She swept her dark, silver-streaked hair behind her ear, allowing Rico a clear look at her face. Big brown eyes, crinkling in the corners. Faint wrinkles, no makeup. Not young, but not old. Not a knockout, but not too plain. A typical specimen of his fan base. Pure force of habit turned on the ol’ Rico Diamond charm.
“The one and only. Always nice to meet a fan. Especially one so beautiful.”
“Fan? Really?” The woman’s nostrils flared as her fists tightened on her bottle. “Don’t even tell me you don’t remember me, Rico Derpdump.”
The smarmy grin dropped from Rico’s face. How did she know his real name? Nobody knew his real name except the people who knew him back on…
His breath caught as his mind’s eye peeled twenty-five years off the woman before him. Her intimidating stature shrank down and pushed out, melting her muscles into soft dough. Age lines smoothed as her thin face filled out into pimply jowls. Her graying hair flowed into an oily black ponytail tied with a knot of twine.
It couldn’t be.
“Meegan?”
She gave a curt nod. Her lips smiled, but her eyes remained impassive. “Long time no see.”
Rico forced his own insincere smile. “Wow. You look great. You know, I’d love to catch up, but first, uh…” He gestured at the puddle of yellow blood pooling around Clarizza’s smashed head. “What the hekk happened on this—”
Meegan lurched forward and clamped a hand over his mouth. Before he could struggle, a chilling pop-pop-pop echoed up the corridor. He followed Meegan’s wide-eyed stare along the storefronts to see a Qualexi waiter stagger into view on his beefy tentacles. Another ripple of pops delivered a cabin steward from the other direction. More pops. A yoga instructor. A deckhand. A bartender. All closing in, slavering drool and gore down the fangs of their wrecked jaws.
“They found us! We’re surrounded!” Meegan’s eyes darted, evaluating their only two options for escape—a lifeboat hatch that currently led directly to open space on one side and a plain, unmarked door on the other. She launched toward the door and rattled the handle, impatiently tapping her bracelet on its lock-pad. The pad blinked red and farted an error tone.
“Dang it!”
She drew back her magnum of wine and brought it down on the handle like a powersledge. The bottle shattered, splattering turquoise booze, but the handle didn’t budge. Rico hobbled over, pain threatening to black him out with every step.
“Move aside!”
He slammed into the wall and waved his own bracelet at the pad. It lit green and the door popped open with a cheery ping.
Rico tumbled into the next room, but only made it two paces before he crashed to the floor in a sea of agony. Meegan raced in behind him and slammed the door. With another satisfied ping, its deadbolts shot into place. Hissing mutants pounded against the other side as Meegan leaned against it and caught her breath.
Sweat beaded on Rico’s face, part terror, part pain, part pure adrenalin burn. He touched his injured right thigh, shooting bright arcs of torment through his body. His skull hammered and he vowed to never do that again. His watering eyes adjusted to the dim emergency lighting, picking out the polished edges of industrial chromasteel appliances. They were in the kitchen of one of the promenade restaurants. Meegan scowled and rapped a knuckle on the glowing red X on her bracelet.
“Ugh! Why doesn’t this stupid thing work anymore?”
Rico mopped his cheeks with his palms. “When the ship goes on lockdown, it tries to herd the passengers toward the lifeboats. The guestNav bands won’t open anything that doesn’t lead to an active muster station.”
“Then why does yours still work?”
“Mine’s crewNav.” Rico raised his arm. A pulsing green key glowed from his bracelet’s steel face. “In an emergency, it switches to all-access. I’m supposed to find stragglers and escort them to safety.” He half smiled. “You’re welcome.”
Meegan’s eyes rolled. “My hero.” She crouched by his side. “How’s that leg? That showgirl looked like she was gonna take it for a souvenir.”
Rico pushed himself upright and shrieked. “Agh! Mertz!” He slumped back and whined. “It hurts like hekk. If you hadn’t showed up when you did…” He shuddered at what could h
ave been. “Thanks for the assist, Meegs.”
He met her eyes. She blinked away and stood up. “Uh, yeah. Well, these Qualexi are persistent buggers. We have to keep moving.” Meegan smoothed down her wine-stained shirt as she crossed the small room. “Come on. There’s another way out.” She shoved one side of a pair of double doors. Locked. She shoved the other. Also locked. She frowned and turned to Rico. “Toss me your band. I’ll check and see if it’s safe this way.”
“It won’t work.”
“It has to work.” Meegan eyed the door they came through rattling in its jamb. “There’s no other way out.”
“No, I mean, the band won’t work if I take it off. It’s bio-locked to my identiprint.” Rico twisted the thin cuff around his wrist. “And I’m not going anywhere until you tell me what happened on this ship.”
Meegan huffed impatiently. “Why do you keep asking that? How can you not know?” She squinted at him as if truly seeing at him for the first time. Grippy socks. Green plastic pajamas. Two perfect circles of tender pink skin over his temples. “Wait, did you sleep through the whole infection?”
The word sent a shiver down Rico’s spine and a sizzle through his bruised loins. He had, in fact, been sleeping through an infection.
Rico knew full well the risks of cross-pollinating with non-mammalian species, but he was still a sucker for blondes in any biological configuration. One especially lonely night, he had told Clarizza his show might have an advancement opportunity for a properly motivated dancer. He offered to discuss it with her in his cabin over a nightcap. One thing led to another and the next morning he was in the infirmary pissing polliwogs. The Sturf doctor shot him up with anti-batrachomorphics and put him in stasis until his immune system could recover. He’d still be under right now if a rolling power failure hadn’t triggered his medipod’s auto-wake failsafe.
Rico gestured to his pajamas. “Had a bad reaction to some seafood. Doc had to knock me out long enough for my stomach to—” A popping wave of tentacles bashed the door. He jerked back with a pained squeak. “Anyway, you were saying… Infection?”