“The colonel and I have searched them both.”
I sniffed. “It’s surprising how often people miss essential information when it’s right under their noses—”
“Quinlan!” Colonel Englert intercepted us fifty meters down the corridor, his hair and uniform gray as the station’s walls,
As I clicked the holovision remote, images cycled with lazy ease, adding unintelligible noise to my apartment. Fluorescent lights flickered overhead, illuminating the stagnant monotony of my life.
The micro-oven dinged and I peeled the cellophane seal from my premade dinner for one.
If life were a streaming service, Max would’ve hit “Skip Intro” a long time ago.
Every day played out the same: wake up, scroll, eat cereal that claimed to “optimize your morning,” and try not to think about the flashing ad
“Stella, you’re clearly the creative type.” The smiling digital man flowed along the wall screens as Stella walked home. “So, check out StoryTeller Pro 5.0! With just a few prompts…”
She looked down to escape the relentless advertisement, but this street had freaking
Captain Bob Cratchit yawned as he adjusted the holographic scanner, slowly bringing Sector 213A into clearer focus. It had been a long flight between the stars, and all he could think about was getting home to Earth for Christmas.
Alarms suddenly shrieked as the sector
Dorian Gray stepped through the shimmering portal, the air of the Nexus Hub a crisp, metallic tang compared to the musty London alley he’d just vacated. Another dimension, another opportunity. His reflection in the polished chrome walls was, as always, flawless. The Nexus, a sprawling interdimensional crossroads, was a haven for those seeking new experiences, new pleasures.
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By Alicia Peterson When my grandkids ask about the Halloween Blizzard Invasion of ’91, I do what everyone my age does. I lie through my teeth. “Did Great-Grandpa Dave really let you run the flamethrower?” Six-year-old Nora asks the same question every time. I can practically see fire reflected in her hungry eyes as she
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Mom used to tell us stories about October on the Old Planet. Like clockwork, the autumn breeze would billow across the valley, tugging leaves from their branches and filling the yard with ember orange and gold. She’d gather them into piles for her siblings to launch into, the foliage crunching and crackling beneath…
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Logbook Entry. October Fourteenth, in the humble year 2568.
Just last month, I gazed upon the old weapons and hovercrafts from the Great War. And I finished reading the faded copy of The Art of War two weeks ago. Never could I have imagined it was preparing me for my fast-approaching conscription.
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She points to my scarred neck. “You’re one of them?”
I turn up my collar and bury my nose in my book. The woman sitting across from me leans forward, waiting for a response.
I don’t look up. Get another seat, lady.
She takes the hint and rifles through her carry-on bag.
“Mom, do you know how to make a burrito?”
“Old Earth foods are under heading six on the Nutritionator,” I muttered as I held up my hand massager to the light. Yep. Little tooth marks lined the pinky finger. I shook my head in confusion. While I’d noticed scrapes on my hair-styler that morning, I’d thought they were scuff marks
“They’re going to cut your funding, Jakk.”
The words slammed into me, but I continued adjusting the excavation bot’s parameters, pretending I hadn’t heard. When I finished, I watched the bot whir into the air, hovering above our floating platform before zipping to the jungle to join its companions at the archaeological site below.
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