Machina Obscurum

by J. Edward Neill

  Mark watched as she reached inside the book bag slung across her shoulders, shaking her head with a terse smile.

  “I don’t get you. At all. And I’m usually a pretty good judge of character. Comes from the teaching,” Jun said, still digging. “One minute you’re smiling as you watch Crappy Moonlit Homicidal Land whizz by, and the next you’re jumping down my throat.”

  Mark motioned for her to sit down. “I’m a complicated guy.”

  “I guess you can call it that.” She sat on the floor next to Mark, now watching the depressing scenery continue to go by.

  “I understand where you’re coming from. I get it,” Mark said. “We’ve seen some crappy stuff as we’ve hit these worlds. Things that I’d normally wade waist-deep into. But we can’t deal with any of that today. Later, maybe.”

  “The further he gets away with the kid, the less of a chance we have of getting her back home. You know this better than me. Hell, you’re the brains of the operation.”

  Jun opened her book bag, reaching inside for the Crossing device, anticipating the obligatory—

  “What’s our window?” Mark watched her fiddle with the device’s touchscreen.

  “You never miss a beat,” Jun replied with a grin. “We’re looking at five minutes and counting. So just sit back—”

  A blaring siren in the car cut her off, punctuated by a red flashing light. Mark instinctively went for his weapon, as Jun started to search for the source of the alarm.

  “Lunar grav transport launch will commence in five minutes,” came a monotone voice over the train car’s loudspeaker.

  “Jun,” Mark said.

  “I’m on it,” his companion replied, fingers flying on the wall keypad from earlier.

  The furrow on Jun’s brow deepened a bit more as she continued to pound at the keys.

  “Jun,” Mark said again, voice rising a little, the flashing lights and alarm continuing to blare in the train car.

  “This is a grav transport bound for space,” Jun said, not looking up from the panel.

  “Wait— what?!” Mark holstered his weapon. “You mean ‘Space space?!’”

  Jun stepped away from the wall panel, which showed a trajectory from central Georgia to the lower atmosphere of Earth. The dotted line showed a final destination of the second moon, where a glowing orb flashed green.

  “How?” Mark stared at Jun, who focused on the Crossing device.

  “I think we got sidetracked with the ‘being shot at’ portion of our trip,” Jun replied, bottom lip bit as her mind raced. “Got on the wrong grav train.”

  “How much time?

  “Lunar grav transport launch will commence in three minutes and counting,” chimed the car’s loudspeaker as if responding to the lawman.

  “How the hell did we just lose a minute?” Mark scanned the cabin for an exit.

  “Actually, remember, and it’s kind of awesome, time here has a “differential” loss between what we see as linear and this-may-not-be-the-time-for-a-science-lesson,” Jun replied.

  The car shook with a sudden force, hurling the duo to the back of the car, while the nearby cargo stayed stationary. Mark tried to grab Jun, as the car started to rattle, creating a loud din of noise as the train prepared for its stellar bound ascent.

  The rocket propulsion system blared from the rear of the train, shooting the formerly grounded vehicle into the nighttime skies above.

  Mark watched as the blighted Georgia landscape was replaced by the nighttime sky. Pockmarked by white clouds, the skies bathed the interior of the car with a milky color, creating an ethereal mood.

  “We’re not going to space!” Mark yelled over the blaring alarms, and fierce rattling of the space bound vehicle.

  Motioning towards the Crossing device that she held with a death like grip, Jun said, “We have to get outside! We can’t cross from in here!”

  Mark, disbelief etched on his face, yelled back, “Wait—outside how?”

  “Do you want a science lesson, or do you want to live?!”

  With that, Jun hitched her backpack, Crossing device now secure in her pocket, and began the tilted ascent to the panel that controlled the force field.

  Mark followed suit behind the professor, and watched warily as she began to type the needed sequence to bring down the force field.

  “Grab onto me and hold on tight!” Jun yelled. “Only a few seconds left. We jump on three!”

  Mark wrapped his arms around his companion’s waist, and said a silent prayer.

  “Three!” Jun smacked the panel with such force that Mark knew they might have to have a doctor take a look at her hand on the next world.

  Or that’s what he almost thought, as his mind became extremely preoccupied with being snatched into the nighttime sky, the whipping winds playing havoc with his ears.

  Jun was yelling something, frantically reaching for her pocket.

  And oh yeah, they were tumbling head over heel the entire time. Made it somewhat difficult to get their bearings.

  Jun’s right. The agent gripped his companion even harder, teeth chattering.

  The sky on this world was beautiful.

  Mark then chose this opportunity to black out.

  Ice Cream

  Phil Elmore

  “D id you hear that, Daddy?”

  “No,” he said. He was lying. “Is your ice cream good?”

  “It’s really good,” said his daughter. Megan was seven years old and still capable of enthusiasm for the simplest things. He would miss that when she was older. Holding her free hand with his while licking at his own ice cream cone, he frowned. Melted black raspberry was dribbling down his dominant index and ring fingers.

  “What’s the matter, Daddy?”

  “I hate it when my hands get sticky,” he said. He walked faster. She kept pace, skipping.

  Strangers passed on either side. The streets of Manhattan were, in Megan’s words, the busiest mall at Christmas, all the time. He could not argue with her. Forcing himself not to look back, he directed her into a section of scaffolding. These were everywhere, protecting pedestrian traffic from construction or maintenance above.

  “My Daddy is the best daddy in the whole world,” Megan told a passing stranger. The woman, in her thirties, wearing a nicely tailored suit and skirt, smiled at the little girl. He offered the woman a smile of his own. She returned it tentatively, suspicious. Men alone with children were always suspicious. It was the way the world was now.

  “You’re the best daughter in the whole world,” he told Megan.

  “My Daddy once rode a unicorn,” Megan informed a man in a suit. The man in the suit pretended not to see her. Megan was undeterred. “My Daddy can fly, and he’s bulletproof, and he owns not just one, but two Ferraris.”

  “Megan,” he chided.

  “But—” she started.

  “Quickly,” he said. He guided her into an alleyway, past dumpsters and rotting garbage, past a homeless man who reeked of gin. Megan made a face. He pulled her along more urgently.

  “I’m done with my ice cream, Daddy,” she said, sounding unsure.

  “So am I,” he said. “Next to that dumpster, Megan.” He tossed the melting cone into a pile of bloated garbage bags. Megan did the same, relishing her throw.

  “Will we stay in New York long, Daddy?”

  “No,” he said. “Probably not.” Were they in the clear? He wasn’t sure. It was possible they had thought to—

  Two men appeared at the opposite end of the alley.

  He stopped. Megan stopped with him, still clutching his left hand with her right.

  They had thought to cut him off. He risked a look over his shoulder. Too far. They would overtake him if he tried to run. He would have to carry Megan and that would slow them both.

  Knives snapped open. They were shabby blades held by shabby men: dirty t-shirts, stained jeans, sneakers with holes in the toes. Muggers. Nothing more.

  “My Daddy is going to kill you,” said Megan.
r />   The two men exchanged glances. One motioned with his knife. Neither spoke.

  “I don’t have any cash,” Megan’s father told the muggers. “Just leave us be.”

  “My Daddy isn’t scared of you,” said Megan. “My Daddy kills a lot of people. My Daddy used to work for the Central Intelligence.”

  “Agency,” he said quietly. “Central Intelligence Agency, sweetie.”

  “Central Intelligence Agency,” Megan repeated. “He’s a trained assignment.”

  “Assassin,” he corrected.

  “Assassin,” said Megan.

  “Megan,” said her father. “We’ve talked about this.”

  “I know,” she said.

  “And what did we say?”

  “No Ferarris. And no Central Intelligence.”

  One of the muggers took a step forward. Megan’s father snapped the shabby man’s knee with a short kick that made the little man shriek. A stomp to the throat stopped the screaming.

  The second thug turned to run. A hand snaked around his forehead, snapping his head back, pulling him off balance. The pavement rushed up. Somehow, the mugger’s knife found its way into the mugger’s chest.

  Megan looked up at her father, her hand finding his again. The two rushed out of the alley.

  “And why don’t we talk about Ferraris and Central Intelligence?” he asked her.

  “Because we aren’t supposed to tell strangers the truth,” Megan said. “Am I in trouble?”

  “No,” said her father. “Not if we keep walking.”

  “Can we see a movie?”

  “We’ll see,” he said. “I have to make some work calls first.” He looked down at his right hand and frowned. Streaks of blood had stained his skin.

  “What’s the matter?” Megan asked.

  “I told you,” he said. “I hate it when my hands get sticky.”

  The Journal

  An excerpt from the novel Dark Moon Daughter

  J Edward Neill

  Year 12, date unknown

  I t’s cold outside, as ever it is in Shivershore.

  The sea’s salted foam crashes outside my window. The sun sets beneath a dreary, unhappy sky. Save for my lonely candle, my little friend who likes to dance with each draft of air seeping between the shutters, I have little light to write by. I sit here, inking words no one will ever read, squinting to see the page before me.

  I am too anxious.

  This will be my final entry.

  I wonder if I am ready.

  Today will be my last day in the tower. This crowded pillar of tired, sea-bleached stones has been a good, if humble home. The corner hearth keeps it warm enough, while the tower’s perch amid the tangled rocks and battered shoreline cliffs affords me the sort of privacy and solitude I have found nowhere else. Though my comforts are few, my years here have been useful. I have unraveled the secrets I sought and brought many intangible truths to light. I have sacrificed much in living here, but soon all of it will be worthwhile. Today marks winter’s last gasp. Tomorrow a new season begins. And so I bid you a fond farewell, good tower.

  I hope to never see you again.

  I packed my things yestereve. I slid a few important sheaves of paper, a loaf of bread, some wine, and an extra set of boots into my satchel. I suppose I might even find room for this journal, though it seems rather meaningless, considering I will not tend to it again. Looking at my bag, small and crumpled as a peasant’s hat, one would never know the places I am bound for.

  I dreamed again last night. I have dreamed often of late, too often, suffering many doubts while I sleep. My nightly imaginings have been particularly dark, twisting my life’s hopes and ambitions into nightmares, poisoning my mind with images of death and failure. Even so, every time I wake I feel no weakness or perturbation. This strikes me as comforting. Perhaps my dreams are trying to send me a message, whispering horrors into my ear and reminding me of my simple beginnings, while at the same time fortifying me. Though I tremble as I slumber, the very moment I wake I feel strong again.

  Last night while cleaning out my cupboards, a number of unexpected questions tumbled into my mind. I suppose I had been concerned with the execution of my plan for so long that certain possibilities escaped me. I sat at my lonely table, chewing on a brick of hard, stale bread, and the questions struck me just as the sun began to set. I wondered; how will my coming be perceived? How will my subjects view me? When I stand on my pulpit at the world’s twilight, what will they think? Will I be adored and praised or feared and reviled? Will they see me as a savior from their daily futilities or will they look upon who I am and what I have become and turn their cheeks with wordless scorn? Kneeling upon the earth, stretching fearfully from meadow to sea, what will they whisper? Tyrant, I wager they will name me, destructor of the earth. But it is not certain, not knowable for now.

  These questions and more pummeled my mind for too much of the night. As I swallowed my bread and dwelled upon them, I came to no meaningful conclusion. I decided I did not know the answers. I cared not. I cannot fathom the emotions of others, nor do I wish to. What the people will think at the end does not concern me, nor will it when I become king.

  King. It has a pleasant taste to it. I say it often to myself, and it snaps so easily off my tongue. No wonder the term is so often misused. The local lord risen to power, the snot-sniffling heir, the winner of some inconsequential military affair, they all think they are kings, and that they above all others know what it means to possess power over mankind. If only they knew what I know, they would not think themselves so wise. They would wet their gilded chairs by day and shiver in their beds by night. They would beg for a taste, a single lash of their tongues just to lavish their minds with a fragment of what I know. What horror would befall their minds were the truth to strike them? But now I am rambling again. I do it too often. I am nothing if not someone who talks too much.

  Each time I reflect upon my long, slow years of study, I realize my greatest sacrifice has been living here in this tower. Because of my choice, I have had no one to talk to, no one to share a cup of tea with or sit beneath the night with and discuss the meaning of the stars. During the endless days, this journal was all that kept me from madness. I have been drawn to it every night, dithering for a moment before penning to paper the least significant parts of my day. How quaint it seems, a child’s diary. How ordinary. How weak.

  My things are packed. My cleaning is complete. I am ready for a last night’s sleep. As I stretch upon my sagging bed, I feel a moment of longing. It is a strange sensation. I almost wish someone else were here, a woman perhaps, a pretty thing with a sympathetic ear. I wonder how pleasant it must be to lie with a beautiful girl or to be a man with many friends. But what do I know? These things are forgotten to me. Rather than sit and pine for the world to comfort me, I must remember my chosen path. My own thoughts are the only ones I shall ever know. I will be alone from now until the end.

  The winter fails. The sea rages outside. I am weary of writing. I have come to it at last, the end of my preparation. My candle, my only companion, is dying, the victim of too many nights spent watching over these sad little pages. When I lift my pen, my hermit’s life shall end. Not long from now, perhaps on an evening not so different than tonight, the skies will fall, and I will be the last living soul in all the world.

  - D

  The Sound of Silence

  From the anthology ‘A Demon in the Basement’

  River Fairchild

  E leven months, fifteen days.

  Elyse checked the date off on the computer’s calendar. Almost a year had passed since the virus showed up in the shipment from Earth. It seemed a lifetime ago. After scanning the empty communications log in a futile hope that Earth might have sent a message while she slept, Elyse took a walk through the arboretum.

  The park-like structure rose from the middle of the moon base, its towering trees and plant life a balm to raw nerves, often giving her the strength to continue this existence. I
t was here that John had proposed to her, just weeks before the illness took him as well. He’d made her promise to be strong, no matter what happened. Elyse meant to keep that promise. She walked down the path that led to the rose garden, the fragrant flowers bringing a smile to her face. John used to pick the occasional bud for her when no one was looking.

  The intercom came alive with a maniacal laugh. Nick Phearson, the only survivor besides herself—if you could call him that—started his descent into madness about six months ago, right after they pushed the last body out the airlock.

  “It’s just you and me now,” he’d said back then. “Shall we go out with a bang?”

  His words startled her. As an engineer, he could probably blow up the station. Nothing had come of it though. For the most part, he left her alone, keeping to his quarters and sending her greetings like clockwork over the intercom. Elyse ignored him and kept to a routine in the hope of an eventual rescue.

  Four months ago all communication from Earth ceased. Elyse knew the virus had ravaged the planet as well. Why she and Nick had been spared was a mystery. The doc hadn’t done more than isolate the virus before it took his life, leaving the sickness to spread through their small community.

  As communications supervisor, Elyse heard the call the day the contaminated shipment came in. The dock worker who opened it soon complained of dizziness and was rushed to the infirmary. By the time she got there, he was in a cold sweat, falling down as if he were drunk.

  “What happened?” Doc said.

  Elyse couldn’t tell him and the man was incapable of speech. He died later that night. By then, a lab technician was ill and the virus had multiplied beyond hope of containment.

  The intercom erupted again, breaking into her thoughts.

  “Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day. Will you be mine?” Nick’s disembodied voice floated through the trees in the arboretum like a malevolent spirit trying to track her down.