Future Chronicles Special Edition

by Samuel Peralta

  The wind picked up, and she looked over her shoulder. Visibility was rapidly decreasing. The haze was rolling away from the Mother, filling the air like a slow-moving wall from ground to sky. She had to get inside fast.

  A particle landed on skin scraped raw from her earlier escape efforts. Pain screamed in her head upon that tiny contact.

  She ignored that and tapped out the sequence again, very carefully.

  The keypad flashed red and the portal did not open as it had before.

  Her hungry body felt the sunlight begin to go.

  She tried again, but somehow they’d locked her out. They didn’t want her inside their domain. They wouldn’t let that happen twice.

  Tiny amber grains pelted her. Pain burrowed into her skin with each contact. She tried to shelter within the small concavity of the portal, but the wind swirled, and the devilish pollen granules found her.

  The Mother was meting out her justice. The Mother wanted to survive, too. And she had. She had not only survived, she had thrived. This world was hers now. There wasn’t a corner of it that she didn’t oversee.

  There was nowhere else for Hain to hide. She slipped one leg out of the hollow of the portal, making contact with the ground. Her last, desperate option was to take root and hope to outlast the caustic pollen storm. If she could tap into some water in the soil and keep a fraction of her stomata functional under her lichen armor, she might endure.

  She closed her stomata tight, as she did at night, hoping to preserve the integrity of her skin. No point in gas exchange now. The atmosphere was so thick with pollen that the sun had virtually disappeared. The light had gone dull, shadowless, deepest goldenrod. There would be no more photosynthesis for a long while.

  The pollen swirled around her like snow. Her flesh burned, pinpricks of agony, wherever it struck.

  In the distance she heard roars and yelps of pain. She squinted over her shoulder to see the indistinct shapes of the mammals far down the edge of the glade. They’d blundered out in the wrong place. She couldn’t believe their lungs were still functioning—surely the pollen had turned that fragile tissue to a bloody mass.

  Her leg stiffened as the transformation began, toes slowly curling into rooted tendrils, her heel gradually growing into a spur to anchor her securely to the spot.

  Could she hear the Mother’s whisper? Was she closer to knowing the Mother’s truths, the Mother’s peace?

  Hain tried to curl into herself, to shield some part of her body, to protect it from the ravaging particles on the wind. Pollen burned her eyes. She was sticky, oozing precious fluids from broken veins. If she couldn’t reach water in the soil, she would desiccate right here in this shallow alcove.

  She heard a beep.

  Hain opened her eyes to slits and scanned her surroundings. The beasts continued to advance. She could see them more clearly now, their shaggy fur frosted with pollen. How they could endure it, she didn’t know.

  They’d be angry when they arrived. They’d blame her. They’d tear her limb from limb.

  The beep sounded again. She turned, holding up a hand to shield her eyes. The compartment that housed the keypad for entry was still open. She peered into it. The tiny screen next to the keypad was scrolling the words, “Is it you, Hain?”

  Hain blinked. She read it three times before she believed it. It was Do’Vela. It had to be.

  She wrenched her foot from the soil and crouched in the small hollow of the portal, hurriedly typing, “Yes, I am Hain.”

  “You wish access? There is something amiss!”

  How would Do’Vela know this? Then Hain remembered how Do’Vela rode in others’ minds as a mental escape from her despicable confinement.

  “Yes! Please!”

  A moment went by. Hain put her hand over the crack in the portal. Her foot and leg ached. She tried not to think about what that might mean. She glanced over her shoulder. The animals were almost to the ship. They would not be happy to see her inside. They might punish Do’Vela for giving her entry.

  The door mercifully popped inward. The mammals were steps away, staggering and raging, yellow-encrusted berserkers.

  She ducked inside and pushed the door shut with a loud metallic crash. She darted to the nearest interface and sent a message: “Change key code.”

  Do’Vela responded. “Why?”

  There was no time. She could hear them outside. She stared at the door. She heard a soft sequence of tones. They were punching in the code on the other side.

  The opening mechanism of the door was exposed on her side. Her discarded tool bag still lay just inside the portal. She grabbed blindly in the bag for a tool, came out with a rasp, and jammed it into the mechanism, hoping it would prevent the latch from turning—from both inside and out.

  She heard infuriated bellows. The mechanism wriggled, but the rasp held firm.

  Hain dashed back to the interface. The word “Why?” still lingered.

  Hain hesitated for a second, then sent, “We don’t need them.”

  There was no answer this time. Hain stood there, unsure how to convey the urgency to Do’Vela. The enraged animals could break through the portal at any moment.

  She reeked of ozone. Her fingers were sticky with sap. She’d left blotches on the screen. She began to falter. Perhaps she’d doomed herself. She leaned heavily on the console and sent, “I will take care of you. It will be better.”

  Do’Vela remained silent. Hain moved unsteadily to the portal. The tool was starting to buckle under the strain as the angry animals battered against the door.

  She was out of options. She went back to send another plea to Do’Vela, but when she got there, there were already two words on the screen: “I understand.” Hain stood there, swaying on uneven legs, her vision swimming as she blinked away the sticky moisture seeping from her burning eyes.

  She wasn’t sure what Do’Vela had understood, but the side of the ship thundered with the sounds of meaty paws pounding on it. Threats barked and roared at her, though they sounded tinny and far away. The portal rattled.

  Then it stopped rattling, went solid as stone.

  Another beep.

  She turned back to the screen. Words scrolled by. “She is yours. Come to me and together we will fly from this place and be free.”

  Hain did not hesitate for a moment.

  A Word from Jennifer Foehner Wells

  I doubt it would be a surprise to anyone who knows me to learn that I love alien stories. I wear my love of science fiction like a badge. From early familial indoctrination with the Star Wars and Star Trek universes, to later exposure to television shows like the original Doctor Who, Farscape, and the Stargates, to Bradbury’s short stories and books like Wyndham’s Day of the Triffids and Adam’s Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy, I developed into someone who craves alien stories with a burning, rabid passion.

  Overall, what interested me most were tales of first contact—of misunderstandings and cultural exchanges, the more bizarre the better, and the human (or sentient?) response to them. I wanted to taste new worlds and leave the mundane Earth behind. I wanted to lose myself in mysteries, in foreign ways of thinking, in outlandish but plausible species. I wanted to be tricked into believing in all of the possibilities that I’ve always known in my heart are just a star away from being real.

  When I started writing Fluency, my first novel, I wanted to write a “fish out of water” story, with the kinds of characters that I loved, and a mystery revolving around an enigmatic alien and all the issues that would arise in an uncontrolled first-contact situation.

  I didn’t expect it to do well, as it was my first published effort. I immediately pushed forward, beginning another novel in a completely different setting with new characters. This new novel would be a superhero origin story—again twisting history to fit my own universe’s cosmology as I had done in Fluency, but with a new spin. It’s called Druid, and as I write this, it’s unfinished.

  As I was writing Druid, there was one character
that bedeviled me—Hain. She was supposed to be a minor character, but I became fixated on her, developing insane amounts of backstory, something I’d never done quite to that extent before. It wouldn’t fit in the book, but I couldn’t help myself. I promised myself that one day I would write a story about her. She deserved it. She was too intriguing not to.

  Well, Fluency did do well. I was encouraged to stop work on Druid in order to deliver what my readers were demanding—a sequel to Fluency. So, with reluctance, I did. (But I’m coming back, dammit!) The success of Fluency earned me invitations to opportunities like this anthology—and immediately I realized that here was my chance to write a story about Hain that would be a prequel to Druid—and a nice counterpoint too, because “The Grove” is a villain origin story. I hope you’ve enjoyed it.

  If you did, you may also enjoy Fluency. For more information on that novel, check out my website, and sign up for my newsletter to be the first to know when I publish something new. Thank you.

  Humanity

  by Samuel Peralta

  A story tells what happens.

  ― David Swinton, in ‘A.I.’ by Steven Spielberg

  ‘I heard a woman screaming’ recounts witness of Interstate 94 pileup

  Fatal crash involved up to 25 vehicles near Port Huron

  WBS News Posted: Feb 06, 10:27 PM EST Last Updated: Feb 07, 6:00 AM EST

  One person has been declared dead following a multi-vehicle crash close to Port Huron. The accident took place around 9:30 p.m. Friday in the westbound lanes of I-94 just past I-69.

  A collision between a passenger vehicle and a semi-truck in the westbound lanes touched off a chain reaction of other collisions, said Sgt. Don Wilson of the St. Clair County Sheriff’s Office.

  Heavy snow and icy weather conditions contributed to the incident.

  Traffic was being directed onto westbound I-69, then off at Wadhams Road in order to reconnect with I-94, while officials continued their investigation into the pileup.

  ON THE DASHBOARD, the time flashed 9:22.

  “Wish I’d topped up the fluids before we left.” Aaron Yudovich flicked at the windshield fluid switch, but nothing happened. Outside, the wipers scratched at the sleet crystallizing on the glass. They made a grating sound as they traced a useless arc across the windshield, back and forth.

  “Just let it drive, Aaron,” Judith said, across from him. “It’ll be fine.”

  The musical had run a bit late, and afterwards there were the obligatory chats with the Weymans and the Otanis, whom they’d run into at intermission.

  By the time their spinner had emerged from the theater’s underground parking lot—at least they hadn’t needed to bring winter coats—the snow was falling much faster than when they’d started out.

  “Still,” Aaron said, loosening his tie. “Wish I could see outside.”

  The wind shook out the snow in sullen gusts. With temperatures at thirty below, they’d have frozen outside in under ten minutes. Thank goodness for the automated control and all-wheel drive—this wasn’t weather anyone would choose to venture out in, otherwise.

  Judith peered in the mirror. “Sweetie, keep your gloves on,” she said. “And for heaven’s sake, stop fiddling with your belt.”

  “But Mom,” whined the girl in the back. “It’s twisted, it’s too tight.”

  Judith sighed. Her daughter had been extremely well behaved at the event. Done up in a ruffled pink party dress and white elbow gloves, her hair tied back in a short ponytail—and, oh! for the first time allowed a touch of makeup—she’d been an angel. Bright-eyed, she’d listened attentively, mouthing the words of the songs she already knew, squealing and clapping at just the right moments.

  Judith and her husband had seen Wicked before; this was Sarah’s first time. It had been an amazing night out, and they were looking forward to seeing Buratino in two weeks. But it was late, the snow was a little worrying, and Judith herself was so, so sleepy.

  “Sarah Rebecca, please put down that belt.”

  The little girl screwed up her face, but let go of the clasp, and dropped the gloves on the seat.

  Outside, the snow fell.

  ‘The semi slammed into the vehicle’

  An eyewitness, Alan Mathison, was driving his truck on his way home from work when he saw the first vehicles collide ahead of him.

  "Snow’s coming down fast, it’s pretty bad. First thing I notice was this semi in front of me drifting out of his lane, right into the path of this red spinner. Then the cab slipped, and the trailer swung to the side, slammed into the vehicle.”

  “A couple of spinners tried to avoid him, started flying out of control on my left and running into the median, into each other, and into the first vehicle,” said Mathison.

  “I’m braking, trying to slow down, move into the other lane. Then I get hit from the side."

  The next thing he knew, he was in the ditch. “When I stopped, I just flung open the door and started moving away. There were still vehicles spinning off the ridge, and I wanted to get away from it all.”

  But when he got out of his truck, something else caught his attention.

  “I heard a woman screaming, like nothing I’ve ever heard. I don’t want to hear anything like that ever again. I ran towards the red spinner, and just beyond it, there she was,” said Mathison.

  “She had this small body on her lap and she was screaming, trying to put on these little gloves, and screaming.”

  When Mathison opened the door, the cold hit him with a shudder of wind, a cold that slashed right through the down of his padded jacket to the bone.

  The ground and ice cut him as he slipped down from the truck, as he tried to make his way toward the wailing. Cold. It was cold with a capital letter ‘C’, and the thought came that he should be getting back in his truck—but the thought was stronger that someone out there needed help, and he had to get to them.

  He reached the spinner first, a tangled wreckage of red and grey and steel lying in the jagged underbrush. Through the shattered window on the front-left side, Mathison could see the body of a man flung forward in his seat, in a suit and no overcoat, buckled in.

  The body was still bleeding from the head, and he looked like he’d taken at least one very hard hit, maybe more. Crushed and pinned in his twisted Coke can of a vehicle. It was clear that even the robot controls on the spinner hadn’t been able to react fast enough to the multiple collisions.

  When Mathison checked the man, his heart sank, even though he’d already known what he’d find. The man was dead.

  From the opposite side door, a furrow in the snow traced where that passenger had unstrapped herself from her seat and made her way fifteen feet from the wreckage.

  A handbag and two high-heeled evening shoes, strewn about four feet apart, marked the snow with three splotches of matching turquoise.

  The woman was at the end of the path, holding what looked like the body of a young girl—ten, maybe eleven years old, a rag doll spun out into the cold.

  “Sarah!” she was crying. “Oh, Sarah!”

  Suddenly she saw Mathison’s figure in the drift, and she called out. “Help me, please, help me!”

  He hurried toward the two, knelt down beside them. He saw that the woman was already shivering badly, although all her attention was on the girl she cradled, limp in her arms.

  He started taking off his jacket, meaning to cover them both and lead them to the warmth of his truck—then stopped and caught his breath.

  There, on the palm of the little girl’s outstretched hand, pale and ungloved, was branded a single letter:

  ‘R’.

  Up to 25 vehicles involved in pileup

  Reports from Transport Service drones at the scene confirmed that the accident was consistent with a series of collisions involving up to 25 vehicles.

  Poor weather and icy road conditions had been very poor, making it a challenging drive around the state, even for robotically controlled spinners, keeping the authorities busy re
sponding to a number of accidents.

  ‘R.’

  The letter—mandated by law and branded just so, on the palm—told Mathison everything he or anyone else was supposed to know about her.

  It communicated the message that—in the crucible of life and humanity, in the triage forced upon them by the night and the wind and the temperature now ranging at thirty degrees below—she didn’t matter.

  She wouldn’t count, alive or dead, in any case, it told him. Only the man in the car would be worth mentioning in any reports. After all, what did they say, the three principles? That she wasn’t a human being; that she was property; that she was subservient?

  She was wreckage, much like the vehicle she’d been flung from.

  It didn’t matter that blood flowed through its veins, that it had a heart that could beat like a human heart, that it shivered as if the cold could freeze that heart. It didn’t matter that it could mimic laughter, weep at a broken doll, or sing, or—

  Suddenly, the little girl’s eyes opened, and she called out, “Mommy.”

  Startled, Mathison flung his coat on the woman, and pulled her away from the girl.

  “Sarah!” she screamed, and broke away briefly; but before she could reach the body again, Mathison scooped the woman off her feet and hauled her away. The snow was falling faster now, his undershirt was wet and stiff, and he knew he needed to reach the truck quickly.