Baby Rabbit

 

Baby Rabbit

by Chris Morton

Can’t say where it came from. Mummy didn’t buy it, neither did Grandma or Granddad. Had nothing to do with me. It just appeared, this tiny little baby rabbit toy. Soft and grubby. A dirty white in colour, with shiny black eyes, no whiskers, small legs and arms; one ear shorter than the other.

Its neck had come apart at the seam and Mei Mei liked to put her finger through the stitching.

She’d had a few favourite toys. An owl, a monkey, but this one was special because it was the first toy she talked to.

I’d catch her sometimes, having these little conversations, and she’d do the baby rabbit voice as it chatted to her back. Whenever she saw me looking, she’d stop, feel shy, and it would have been easy to make fun, to push her, to say, “Ah, you’re talking to your rabbit?” But I didn’t. Instead I’d look away, pretend I hadn’t seen. Or I’d offer her a knowing smile and let them get on with it, not judge or interfere.

“Ahhh, I want some ice-cream,” the baby rabbit would say.

“Okay,” Mei Mei would reply.

She’s go and get some pretend ice cream. Tear up bits of paper and later when we got Play-Doh, she’d use that.

“Pizza!”

“Not too much,” she’d tell the rabbit.

“Ahhh, I want more,” it would squeak.

“Okay, just a bit more.”

Baby Rabbit started sleeping with her before long. “Baby Rabbit!” she’d say.

“Oh, yes.” And I’d find it under the sofa, in the kitchen, in a box in the upstairs spare room. “What was she doing there?”

“Sleeping.”

Mei Mei loved Baby Rabbit and Baby Rabbit loved Mei Mei. She was her mummy.

“Ahhh, Daddy, Daddy.”

Mei Mei had begun to slide Baby Rabbit into my collar when I was putting her to bed. “Babby Rabbit wants Daddy.”

“She wants to sleep with me?”

“Yes.”

She’d rest under my collar, head protruding out, but later, when Mei Mei was asleep, I’d slide the rabbit back under her arm.

“Baby Rabbit’s crying.”

“Oh, what’s wrong?”

“Baby Rabbit’s sick.”

I told Mei Mei stories before going to sleep. I’d make them up, stories about big bad wolves and cakes. Baby Rabbit had her own one.

“One day Baby Rabbit was in the sweet shop. There were so many different kinds of sweets; green ones, turquoise ones, pink ones, chocolate ones …”

Baby Rabbit bought a big bag of sweets and on the way home thought she’d try a few. Just a strawberry one, just an orange one; another chocolate one.

Coming through the front door, Baby Rabbit was feeling sick. She’d eaten all the sweets. Mei Mei gave her a cuddle and told her to be careful next time, to not each too much at once. She gave her some water and put her to bed. Baby Rabbit was crying but in the morning she felt better.

In my job I started late, so in the mornings we’d go out for walks. To the forest or to the park or playground.

On the last day we saw her, we were by the front door, about to go out when I said, “Oh, wait, you’ve forgotten your baby rabbit.”

Took us a while to find her, but there she was, hidden in a pile of clothes.

“Baby Rabbit!”

That morning I was tired so we didn’t go far. I needed something from the pharmacy, Mummy wanted some cold noodles from the convenience store and while there we bought some jelly.

“Jelly!”

We rode on the electric car outside. Mei Mei bobbing up and down. A passer by saw Baby Rabbit resting on the pavement, picked her up and handed her to Mei Mei.

When we got home, Mei Mei was holding the jelly and I had the noodles and the bag from the pharmacy.

We ate lunch, then Mei Mei went upstairs with Mummy for a nap. She was crying about something and at first I thought she was looking for the rabbit but when I went up there it was all about her favourite pyjama top which was in the wash.

I went back downstairs and almost looked for the baby rabbit then. But I was already running late for work.

It was only when I got home and saw Mei Mei that I twigged that Baby Rabbit didn’t seem to be around. No, not straight away. It was later. Not quite bed-time but I had a feeling. I searched every room in the house. I ran back outside in the dark, retraced our steps from that morning. The shops were shut, all except the convenience store.

“You haven’t seen a little baby rabbit toy? Someone handed it in?”

Sympathetic looks from the cashiers and manager. They knew Mei Mei by sight. Probably knew the rabbit too. They could see the desperation in my face. That night I couldn’t sleep.

In the early morning I rushed to the pharmacy.

“A little baby rabbit toy?”

“So sorry.”

I walked up and down the street. Inside another shop.

“Someone must have taken it.”

Back home again, I turned the house upside down. Mei Mei was out with her mummy. I had time. Time to retrace our steps again. I went to another nearby shop that sold soft toys with the idea of buying Mei Mei a new one. But looking at them all … they just seemed so lifeless.

That evening I sat her down.

“There’s something I want to talk to you about.”

Mei Mei looked at me, came to sit on my lap.

“Baby Rabbit is not here. She’s gone. But she’s okay. Another girl found her. She lives in that girl’s house now. Do you understand?”

“Yes,” said Mei Mei. She meant it. She’d taken in my words.

“Why did the other girl take Baby Rabbit?”

“Because she wanted to help her. She saw her in the street and Baby Rabbit was crying. She gave her a cuddle and took her home and now she’s looking after her.”

“Will Baby Rabbit come back?”

“No, she lives in that girl’s house now.”

“I don’t like that girl.”

“No, no, she’s a good girl. She wanted to help Baby Rabbit. Baby Rabbit …” I paused, how to put this? Baby Rabbit’s found someone else? Moved on? “Baby Rabbit is happy, she’s okay.”

“But it’s not that girl’s Baby Rabbit. It’s Mei Mei’s Baby Rabbit.”

“I know, I know. But Baby Rabbit is happy. She’s okay. She’s not crying.”

“Okay.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Okay.”

We held hands. And it was hard to tell who was comforting who.

Chris Morton is the creator of this blog.

He has released two sci-fi novels,

one collection of short stories

and a few other scribblings.

You can find his amazon page here.

Beyond Lies the Wub by Philip K. Dick

 

Beyond Lies the Wub

by Philip K. Dick

They had almost finished with the loading. Outside stood the Optus, his arms folded, his face sunk in gloom. Captain Franco walked leisurely down the gangplank, grinning.

"What's the matter?" he said. "You're getting paid for all this."

The Optus said nothing. He turned away, collecting his robes. The Captain put his boot on the hem of the robe.

"Just a minute. Don't go off. I'm not finished."

"Oh?" The Optus turned with dignity. "I am going back to the village." He looked toward the animals and birds being driven up the gangplank into the spaceship. "I must organize new hunts."

Franco lit a cigarette. "Why not? You people can go out into the veldt and track it all down again. But when we run out halfway between Mars and Earth –"

The Optus went off, wordless. Franco joined the first mate at the bottom of the gangplank.

"How's it coming?" he said. He looked at his watch. "We got a good bargain here."

The mate glanced at him sourly. "How do you explain that?"

"What's the matter with you? We need it more than they do."

"I'll see you later, Captain." The mate threaded his way up the plank, between the long-legged Martian go-birds, into the ship. Franco watched him disappear. He was just starting up after him, up the plank toward the port, when he saw it.

"My God!" He stood staring, his hands on his hips. Peterson was walking along the path, his face red, leading it by a string.

"I'm sorry, Captain," he said, tugging at the string. Franco walked toward him.

"What is it?"

The wub stood sagging, its great body settling slowly. It was sitting down, its eyes half shut. A few flies buzzed about its flank, and it switched its tail.

It sat. There was silence.

"It's a wub," Peterson said. "I got it from a native for fifty cents. He said it was a very unusual animal. Very respected."

"This?" Franco poked the great sloping side of the wub. "It's a pig! A huge dirty pig!"

"Yes sir, it's a pig. The natives call it a wub."

"A huge pig. It must weigh four hundred pounds." Franco grabbed a tuft of the rough hair. The wub gasped. Its eyes opened, small and moist. Then its great mouth twitched.

A tear rolled down the wub's cheek and splashed on the floor.

"Maybe it's good to eat," Peterson said nervously.

"We'll soon find out," Franco said.

* * * * *

The wub survived the take-off, sound asleep in the hold of the ship. When they were out in space and everything was running smoothly, Captain Franco bade his men fetch the wub upstairs so that he might perceive what manner of beast it was.

The wub grunted and wheezed, squeezing up the passageway.

"Come on," Jones grated, pulling at the rope. The wub twisted, rubbing its skin off on the smooth chrome walls. It burst into the ante-room, tumbling down in a heap. The men leaped up.

"Good Lord," French said. "What is it?"

"Peterson says it's a wub," Jones said. "It belongs to him." He kicked at the wub. The wub stood up unsteadily, panting.

"What's the matter with it?" French came over. "Is it going to be sick?"

They watched. The wub rolled its eyes mournfully. It gazed around at the men.

"I think it's thirsty," Peterson said. He went to get some water. French shook his head.

"No wonder we had so much trouble taking off. I had to reset all my ballast calculations."

Peterson came back with the water. The wub began to lap gratefully, splashing the men.

Captain Franco appeared at the door.

"Let's have a look at it." He advanced, squinting critically. "You got this for fifty cents?"

"Yes, sir," Peterson said. "It eats almost anything. I fed it on grain and it liked that. And then potatoes, and mash, and scraps from the table, and milk. It seems to enjoy eating. After it eats it lies down and goes to sleep."

"I see," Captain Franco said. "Now, as to its taste. That's the real question. I doubt if there's much point in fattening it up any more. It seems fat enough to me already. Where's the cook? I want him here. I want to find out –"

The wub stopped lapping and looked up at the Captain.

"Really, Captain," the wub said. "I suggest we talk of other matters."

The room was silent.

"What was that?" Franco said. "Just now."

"The wub, sir," Peterson said. "It spoke."

They all looked at the wub.

"What did it say? What did it say?"

"It suggested we talk about other things."

Franco walked toward the wub. He went all around it, examining it from every side. Then he came back over and stood with the men.

"I wonder if there's a native inside it," he said thoughtfully. "Maybe we should open it up and have a look."

"Oh, goodness!" the wub cried. "Is that all you people can think of, killing and cutting?"

Franco clenched his fists. "Come out of there! Whoever you are, come out!"

Nothing stirred. The men stood together, their faces blank, staring at the wub. The wub swished its tail. It belched suddenly.

"I beg your pardon," the wub said.

"I don't think there's anyone in there," Jones said in a low voice. They all looked at each other.

The cook came in.

"You wanted me, Captain?" he said. "What's this thing?"

"This is a wub," Franco said. "It's to be eaten. Will you measure it and figure out -"

"I think we should have a talk," the wub said. "I'd like to discuss this with you, Captain, if I might. I can see that you and I do not agree on some basic issues."

The Captain took a long time to answer. The wub waited good-naturedly, licking the water from its jowls.

"Come into my office," the Captain said at last. He turned and walked out of the room. The wub rose and padded after him. The men watched it go out. They heard it climbing the stairs.

"I wonder what the outcome will be," the cook said. "Well, I'll be in the kitchen. Let me know as soon as you hear."

"Sure," Jones said. "Sure."

* * * * *

The wub eased itself down in the corner with a sigh. "You must forgive me," it said. "I'm afraid I'm addicted to various forms of relaxation. When one is as large as I –"

The Captain nodded impatiently. He sat down at his desk and folded his hands.

"All right," he said. "Let's get started. You're a wub? Is that correct?"

The wub shrugged. "I suppose so. That's what they call us, the natives, I mean. We have our own term."

"And you speak English? You've been in contact with Earthmen before?"

"No."

"Then how do you do it?"

"Speak English? Am I speaking English? I'm not conscious of speaking anything in particular. I examined your mind –"

"My mind?"

"I studied the contents, especially the semantic warehouse, as I refer to it –"

"I see," the Captain said. "Telepathy. Of course."

"We are a very old race," the wub said. "Very old and very ponderous. It is difficult for us to move around. You can appreciate that anything so slow and heavy would be at the mercy of more agile forms of life. There was no use in our relying on physical defences. How could we win? Too heavy to run, too soft to fight, too good-natured to hunt for game –"

"How do you live?"

"Plants. Vegetables. We can eat almost anything. We're very catholic. Tolerant, eclectic, catholic. We live and let live. That's how we've gotten along."

The wub eyed the Captain.

"And that's why I so violently objected to this business about having me boiled. I could see the image in your mind – most of me in the frozen food locker, some of me in the kettle, a bit for your pet cat -"

"So you read minds?" the Captain said. "How interesting. Anything else? I mean, what else can you do along those lines?"

"A few odds and ends," the wub said absently, staring around the room. "A nice apartment you have here, Captain. You keep it quite neat. I respect life-forms that are tidy. Some Martian birds are quite tidy. They throw things out of their nests and sweep them -"

"Indeed." The Captain nodded. "But to get back to the problem -"

"Quite so. You spoke of dining on me. The taste, I am told, is good. A little fatty, but tender. But how can any lasting contact be established between your people and mine if you resort to such barbaric attitudes? Eat me? Rather you should discuss questions with me, philosophy, the arts -"

The Captain stood up. "Philosophy. It might interest you to know that we will be hard put to find something to eat for the next month. An unfortunate spoilage -"

"I know." The wub nodded. "But wouldn't it be more in accord with your principles of democracy if we all drew straws, or something along that line? After all, democracy is to protect the minority from just such

infringements. Now, if each of us casts one vote -"

The Captain walked to the door.

"Nuts to you," he said. He opened the door. He opened his mouth.

He stood frozen, his mouth wide, his eyes staring, his fingers still on the knob.

The wub watched him. Presently it padded out of the room, edging past the Captain. It went down the hall, deep in meditation.

* * * * *

The room was quiet.

"So you see," the wub said, "we have a common myth. Your mind contains many familiar myth symbols. Ishtar, Odysseus -"

Peterson sat silently, staring at the floor. He shifted in his chair.

"Go on," he said. "Please go on."

"I find in your Odysseus a figure common to the mythology of most self-conscious races. As I interpret it, Odysseus wanders as an individual, aware of himself as such. This is the idea of separation, of separation from family and country. The process of individuation."

"But Odysseus returns to his home." Peterson looked out the port window, at the stars, endless stars, burning intently in the empty universe. "Finally he goes home."

"As must all creatures. The moment of separation is a temporary period, a brief journey of the soul. It begins, it ends. The wanderer returns to land and race. …"

The door opened. The wub stopped, turning its great head.

Captain Franco came into the room, the men behind him. They hesitated at the door.

"Are you all right?" French said.

"Do you mean me?" Peterson said, surprised. "Why me?"

Franco lowered his gun. "Come over here," he said to Peterson. "Get up and come here."

There was silence.

"Go ahead," the wub said. "It doesn't matter."

Peterson stood up. "What for?"

"It's an order."

Peterson walked to the door. French caught his arm.

"What's going on?" Peterson wrenched loose. "What's the matter with you?"

Captain Franco moved toward the wub. The wub looked up from where it lay in the corner, pressed against the wall.

"It is interesting," the wub said, "that you are obsessed with the idea of eating me. I wonder why."

"Get up," Franco said.

"If you wish." The wub rose, grunting. "Be patient. It is difficult for me." It stood, gasping, its tongue lolling foolishly.

"Shoot it now," French said.

"For God's sake!" Peterson exclaimed. Jones turned to him quickly, his eyes gray with fear.

"You didn't see him – like a statue, standing there, his mouth open. If we hadn't come down, he'd still be there."

"Who? The Captain?" Peterson stared around. "But he's all right now."

They looked at the wub, standing in the middle of the room, its great chest rising and falling.

"Come on," Franco said. "Out of the way."

The men pulled aside toward the door.

"You are quite afraid, aren't you?" the wub said. "Have I done anything to you? I am against the idea of hurting. All I have done is try to protect myself. Can you expect me to rush eagerly to my death? I am a sensible being like yourselves. I was curious to see your ship, learn about you. I suggested to the native –"

The gun jerked.

"See," Franco said. "I thought so."

The wub settled down, panting. It put its paw out, pulling its tail around it.

"It is very warm," the wub said. "I understand that we are close to the jets. Atomic power. You have done many wonderful things with it – technically. Apparently, your scientific hierarchy is not equipped to solve moral, ethical -"

Franco turned to the men, crowding behind him, wide-eyed, silent.

"I'll do it. You can watch."

French nodded. "Try to hit the brain. It's no good for eating. Don't hit the chest. If the rib cage shatters, we'll have to pick bones out."

"Listen," Peterson said, licking his lips. "Has it done anything? What harm has it done? I'm asking you. And anyhow, it's still mine. You have no right to shoot it. It doesn't belong to you."

Franco raised his gun.

"I'm going out," Jones said, his face white and sick. "I don't want to see it."

"Me, too," French said. The men straggled out, murmuring. Peterson lingered at the door.

"It was talking to me about myths," he said. "It wouldn't hurt anyone."

He went outside.

Franco walked toward the wub. The wub looked up slowly. It swallowed.

"A very foolish thing," it said. "I am sorry that you want to do it. There was a parable that your Saviour related -"

It stopped, staring at the gun.

"Can you look me in the eye and do it?" the wub said. "Can you do that?"

The Captain gazed down. "I can look you in the eye," he said. "Back on the farm we had hogs, dirty razor-back hogs. I can do it."

Staring down at the wub, into the gleaming, moist eyes, he pressed the trigger.

* * * * *

The taste was excellent.

They sat glumly around the table, some of them hardly eating at all. The only one who seemed to be enjoying himself was Captain Franco.

"More?" he said, looking around. "More? And some wine, perhaps."

"Not me," French said. "I think I'll go back to the chart room."

"Me, too." Jones stood up, pushing his chair back. "I'll see you later."

The Captain watched them go. Some of the others excused themselves.

"What do you suppose the matter is?" the Captain said. He turned to Peterson. Peterson sat staring down at his plate, at the potatoes, the green peas, and at the thick slab of tender, warm meat.

He opened his mouth. No sound came.

The Captain put his hand on Peterson's shoulder.

"It is only organic matter, now," he said. "The life essence is gone." He ate, spooning up the gravy with some bread. "I, myself, love to eat. It is one of the greatest things that a living creature can enjoy. Eating, resting, meditation, discussing things."

Peterson nodded. Two more men got up and went out. The Captain drank some water and sighed.

"Well," he said. "I must say that this was a very enjoyable meal. All the reports I had heard were quite true – the taste of wub. Very fine. But I was prevented from enjoying this pleasure in times past." He dabbed at his lips with his napkin and leaned back in his chair. Peterson stared dejectedly at the table.

The Captain watched him intently. He leaned over.

"Come, come," he said. "Cheer up! Let's discuss things."

He smiled.

"As I was saying before I was interrupted, the role of Odysseus in the myths -"

Peterson jerked up, staring.

"To go on," the Captain said. "Odysseus, as I understand him -"

Philip K. Dick should need no introduction. If you are unfamiliar with his work, check out the amazon page here and his Wikipedia page here. This story is taken from Project Gutenberg. For legal reasons the following statement must be included: (This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org).

Review - After the End by Bruce Golden

After the End by Bruce Golden 

In these crazy, unprecedented, uncertain times it may be questionable whether one wants to be reading a book about the end of the world. Nevertheless, in After the End we have an intelligent novel of epic quality. Definitely one for your reading list.

When the comet Smith-Kim pulls loose from the Kuiper belt and heads straight for Earth, there isn’t much time to prepare for the imminent destruction of the world as we know it. Luckily a small group of scientists have set up the Sanctuary project – a Noah’s Arc of sorts – which has a plan to rebuild and repopulate the planet with plant, animal and human life.

The story does well in avoiding altogether the terror of the comet’s strike. Rather, it focusses on how the characters cope with their strange new barren landscape; in what the survivors do once the devastation has settled. We follow a selection of characters from both inside and outside the Sanctuary as they struggle to make sense of a world where one literary has to start again.

This novel is high on the human element with poignant illustrations of anthropology. It is about relationships, responsibilities and how moral values are tested. There are shades of Bradbury and Jeff VanderMeer and the scope of Dan Simmons, while all the detail is in just the right places; there’s enough science to keep things realistic but not too much and the story is well-paced and easy to read. Plus there’s a healthy pinch of imaginative sci-fi with a neurotic master computer and a few extra-terrestrial surprises as we head towards a thrilling and satisfying end.

A cut above your average apocalypse novel with scenes that will stay with you for a long time after reading.

When a rogue comet collides with the Earth, setting the entire planet afire, there are few survivors. Among them are a submarine crew, an underground sanctuary of scientists, and scattered individuals. Those who do survive, by forethought or chance, rise from the ashes, continue to procreate, and their descendants find new ways to live, create new cultures, new societies, new theologies. In addition, an alien spore has arrived with the comet, and over the decades it grows and evolves into a new form of vegetation that develops a symbiotic relationship with a species of Earth. This relationship expands to become a formidable threat to mankind, even as the age-old clash between science and superstition, logic and faith, continues to divide humanity.

Mr. Tao

 

Mr. Tao

by Chris Morton

“Mr. Tao, Mr. Tao.”

The eyes blinked.

“Mr. Tao. Can you hear me?”

The first doctor clicked his fingers against the side of the man’s head. Haphazard; almost carelessly; then looked across at his colleague. “Looks like we’ve got another one.”

The second doctor muttered while the head, the head of Mr. Tao, began to moan – first low and barely a sound but soon that sound had grown to become nothing short of a desperate roar.

The first doctor’s face came forward, against the eyes: he had some sort of instrument. A light that he shone deep into what was left of the subject.

“He has cognition.”

“Don’t they all.”

This reply came from slightly further away. A third doctor, there were three of them – but then there was panic and much of it growing.

“Can’t we shut it up?”

“It bother you?” said one doctor to another.

Yes, there were three of them. Three doctors. The room was white. Blue. White. And the instrument was a strong, shining silver. Their clothes were white, so he assumed they were doctors. One of them looked away, at a right-angle to the other two who were each staring at him and he tried, tried his best to understand.

“Dump it, then?”

“That’s the fifteenth already.”

“Not even lunchtime.”

Laughter. Shuddering, reverberating laughter.

“I don’t understand it.” This came from the female. The woman. One woman, two men. Doctors … The female, the second doctor, seemed more interested than the other two. They were showing unkindness, discursiveness, like this was some sort of routine and they couldn’t have cared less for him … for Mr. Tao …

That’s my name, he thought.

“The problem is not physical, per se. The head itself is fully recovered.”

“Functional,” put in the third, still staring away at a right-angle.

“It’s the mind,” continued the first doctor, regarding the woman with slight … he was being patronising, superior, informing her as if she were a junior. “The mind cannot cope.”

“With the body,” she replied.

Mr. Tao tried to look down. At what body?

And then he saw it, the reflection in the wall opposite that was a huge, giant glass mirror and the three doctors with him, but it was too much to handle.

The woman, her back arched – she was bending at him. She had black stockings under the white coat and her hair was brown; long, brown and soft. Mr. Tao wanted to touch it, to reach out and he could feel where his arm and hand should have been.

“Wait a minute, we’re getting something.”

The two other doctors were older. One grey-haired, the other black. The grey haired doctor was the one staring off at a right-angle.

“Movement in the left temporal.”

Mr. Tao recognised his face. So familiar. Bathroom mirror, he thought. He remembered shaving, and of times when he’d just stared – why? But he had looked. So often he had looked at his reflection.

“It’s confused.”

The head, the head was his, but attached to something metallic; artificial and spindly.

“Mr. Tao, can you hear us? Do you understand where you are?”

Spindly, from the neck down to a shining, elongated scaffolding of circuits. There were legs, arms, and long, metallic fingers.

“Mr. Tao, do you understand.”

He blinked.

“Not getting anything.”

Mr. Tao began to scream, then realised in the strangest way that he’d already started screaming much sooner – his mouth was open, like a fish.

“Mr. Tao. You are alive.”

But the woman, she seemed worried. She turned to the black doctor. “Is there anything we can do?”

The black doctor said nothing but his eyes, they rolled dismissively.

“Nothing at all?” the woman repeated.

The grey-haired man’s lips were moving ever so slowly. He was talking to the wall – there was something there, out of sight. (Mr. Tao reasoned that it may be some kind of computerised interface).

“Mr. Tao.”

It was the black doctor addressing him – it was he, the first doctor, who had been addressing him all along.

“Mr. Tao, this is the year 2333. You were put into cryogenics …”

But Mr. Tao, the head, was no longer taking notice for it was the woman he was focussing on. Only she could save him now. Tears, bright blue – they were flooding from the ducts in her eyes. Her lips opened and a surge of memories flew at him in a dense, rushed groan and he tried again with his right hand, to reach out to her, begging for help. For understanding.

He knew he’d made a connection.

Help me, he screamed. Help me … My God …

“Another dud,” he heard.

The black doctor looked to the woman. “Fifteen it is, then.”

Hand at her mouth, the tears continued to flow.

“Kill it,” said the grey-haired doctor, turning finally to face the head.

“Another one for the pigs,” agreed the black doctor, patting the woman on the back.

Laughter. Horrible, reverberating laughter. They were mocking him. Giving up on him.

I’m right here. Help me, my God.

“Says here, he paid a fair fortune for this.”

“Didn’t they all?”

Their words became distant: “A … CEO … Symantec … crash … too much blood … ironic … automotive …” A crash, yes! he remembered. A CEO. He had risen to the top, and controlled … he’d been in charge of … self driving … and then … there’d been an accident …

But a song had entered his head. Keep it … window … flying there and … feeling …

With a jerk he was being carried across the room.

“Another head for the disposal.”

More laughter, and ever so slightly less reverberating.

The song continued: Each day … while you can … flying there and … float …

A thump.

Staying conscious for barely long enough to project three hail-Marys, Mr. Tao took in the other heads; he took in their punctured, rolling eyes – though rather than feeling the horror you might imagine, Mr. Tao, once inside and when the lid had closed, decided that in a way it was like returning to the womb. Like home, he decided.

The moaning roar ceased and the head began to convulse in what could only be interpreted as laughter.

Chris Morton is the creator of this blog.

He has released two sci-fi novels,

one collection of short stories

and a few other scribblings.

You can find his amazon page here.

It Seems Fairly Likely by Patrick Gabriel Doyle

 

It Seems Fairly Likely

by Patrick Gabriel Doyle

It seems fairly likely that once upon a time, between the orbits of Jupiter and Mars, another planet may have existed but, somehow, destructed. There is some evidence of this scattered around the vastness: the asteroid belt for example, or some of Jupiter’s moons, perhaps, and the fairly recent discovery of Jupiter’s rings. The closer we look, the more we see – the more we see the deeper the mysteries unfold.

It is, perhaps less likely but, nonetheless, somewhat tantalising that this once-planet supported life and, more tantalising still, that a race of intelligent beings possessing a certain degree of advancement and development populated the planet as it neared its end.

Ever more lip-smackingly tantalising is the thought of that once-planet in orbit around our Sun, while, at the same time, on this world we call Earth; life was also at a certain stage of development.

However, even more deliciously tantalising is the prospect of two possibilities arising from this premise we have built up.

One:

That life on Earth was seeded from the once-planet, perhaps post-destruction, in some gloriously survivalistic, chance consequence. Or, indeed, that life on Earth was seeded on purpose as a means of carrying on the genes, so to speak.

Two:

That both planets held life simultaneously …

*

Cara Delaggwei sat happily astride her saurian mount. It was a beautiful Urth day; her fifth out from Atlantis.

She had nothing much to do – check the herds, gather some food and rig up a shelter. She was going to be spending the night away from Main Compound.

As the day wore on, she drew ever closer to a smouldering volcano, glimpsed through thick, jungle foliage and sending pretty, ribbon trails of smoke up into the blue.

Of course Cara knew those pretty trails were actually noxious fumes and that at any moment the volcano could erupt, quaking the ground and throwing suffocating ash into the air. But not today!

Instruments showed no trace of major seismic activity in that area. Of course, there were always rumblings: Threats. Impulsivity. It was a young world after-all. Younger than her.

She enjoyed dabbling with time when she was ‘down there’ as they called it.

Without warning two snap-lizards came crashing through the foliage towards her. They were after her Saur but would make a tasty meal of Cara nonetheless, even if they didn’t know what she was!

She pulled a stun gun and pulsed a vibration to one of the lizards.

It dropped.

She took instant aim at the second lizard.

Suddenly her Saur lurched and toppled, throwing her to the ground. A third snap-lizard coming in from a different direction – a hunting party with a plan – a bit of evolution going on here – she thought crazily.

She managed to roll away from the action.

Her Saur was already fighting a losing battle and Cara tussled with compassion against the directive that they must change nothing – but we’re changing it just by being here!!

If she stunned the snap-lizards she would be left with a badly injured Saur to deal with – she could maybe heal it – but then the snap-lizards would have no dinner – but then the Saur wouldn’t have been here if I hadn’t –

WHOOSH – SNAP – breath on her right ear. With reflex action she sprang away from yet another snap-lizard as it entered the scene.

Luckily Cara was smaller than the usual lizard prey and the mistimed SNAP, sent it careering on to where the main action was happening. But she had been clocked – she had better get out of there – Thank you Saur and goodbye!

Pausing merely a microsecond, she made a sign in the air and sent it to the already fading Saur. She knew – one small moment of compassion goes a long, long way – then she was out of there.

Cara kept running until she put enough distance between herself and the snap-lizards to feel safe, at least, for the moment. At some point she would have to make her way back to retrieve her equipment, unless one of the snap-lizards had chewed it up – wouldn’t that be a find for some palaeontologist in the future!

She dug up some roots to munch on, communed with Main Compound and filled them in on the day’s events, then settled herself in the undergrowth until evening.

When she woke, she realised she’d been asleep – some kind of huge red/green, winged insect was buzzing around the bushes.

A quick glance at its proboscis told her it wasn’t going to bite her – more interested in the evening flowers – she smiled, but moved away stealthily nonetheless.

By the time she reached the spot where the snap-lizards had attacked it was deep twilight. Foliage had been thrashed around so much that a small clearing had been made. There was a trail of snapped branches where the remains of Saur had been dragged away by the snap-lizards or something else.

The packs of equipment were easily discernible against the flattened grass – all was well on that score anyway.

Moving through the dense undergrowth at night would be foolish so she set up a vibrobarrier and phase-tent, which provided some degree of invisibility and protection lest the rains and biting insects come.

It was now pitch black night. She drank proto-water, thinking about how she should proceed tomorrow. The stars twinkled through a break in the foliage.

By chance, Atlantis was visible in that small portion of sky, brighter and bigger than the surrounding stars. She wished to commune and set her mind in process – SUDDENLY – INTENSELY AWARE OF ACUTE SILENCE – THEN – ATLANTIS – INTENSELY BRIGHT - EXPANDING – ACROSS THE SKY – ACROSS HER MIND – SEARING LIGHT – ENGULFING CRASH – THEN…

darkness…

silence…

over Urth…

in her mind…

She looked up.

Where Atlantis had been – an empty space.

Where there had been connection in her mind – silence.

"Atlantis? Gone?" - She whispers to the night. And to herself, almost like an expectation, she sighs – "It seems fairly likely."

Patrick Gabriel Doyle is from Glasgow, Scotland.

For more stories and links check out his amazon page here.