Round 4 - We Don't Need Roads (Sawyer vs Ink)

[Kaez]

For this round, you must write a sci-fi story in less than 750 words. The deadline is the 26th at 11:59pm PST.

[The Counter Cultist(Sawyer)]

The rain falling down, and the wind blowing gently against your wispy, armor covered frame. Just like home. Just like Earth. You take a look around, looking around the remains of the freshly bombarded village that you and your fellow marines had just landed in. It was strange; it almost appeared as though it could be from home. But that was impossible right?

The sound of somebody whimpering caught your attention and you crossed the village to find its source. It was coming from one of the buildings still standing. Upon stepping in, what you see blows you away. You had been in the Colonial Marines for four years now. For four years you and your squad and traveled to various worlds to cleanse them and prepare them for human settlement. For the preservation of mankind. Nothing had affected you, for the forces you were sent in to kill were almost always so alien. Large man sized spiders or crab like people for example.

But laying before you now is something else. You look upon them, eyes behind your expressionless helmet wide with shock. Hair as red as blood, about your height. Green skin yes; but their features. Two ‘aliens’, with an undoubtedly human appearance. One older, and the other barely a toddler, being clutched to its mother’s breast. Your grip on your rifle tightens as the older one notices you, and reaches out to you. It’s saying something; words you don’t understand, but the meaning is clear. Help us.

The sound of more boots walking on the hard dirt catches your attention. You look to see your bunkmate walk in beside you, juggling a small cylinder. You barely pay attention as he mentions something about returning to the ship, that this was the only loose end to tie up. You watch, a pit in his stomach as presses a button on the cylinder. A part of you wants to deflect it as he tosses it, to shoot him and help the alien escape.

But you do not. And the cylinder erupts into flames. You only stand there for a few moments; listening as they both scream. God the screaming.

You are silent the entire trip back to the orbiting Dawnbringer. Silent through the removal process of your armor. Silent as you shower. Instead of joining your fellow marines in the mess, you feign stomach illness and go straight to your bunk. You sit there, contemplating this new knowledge you had. Your entire career, you had been told that all alien life was hostile, and that there was no evidence of a race like the one you had seen an hour before. You remember now, raining death with your pulse rifle and grenades. All those very clearly non human entities. It had been easy.

But this, that mother and child. You could not forget them. They had been different from the other alien races that you and your fellow marines had encountered. You may not have spoke their language, but there was no denying the look in the mother’s eyes. The look of fear; the same one that had been in your own eyes during your first operation. The look of somebody who didn’t want to die.

You had believed in the cause you fought for. Humanity had conquered the stars so it would survive. The core colonies and Earth itself were becoming overcrowded, and this planet had such perfect conditions. The most Earth like planet any colonial survey team had ever found. You replayed the mantra in your head as thoughts of the obviously intelligent and sentient aliens down below dying en masse crossed your mind. For the preservation of mankind. For the preservation of mankind.

But deep down you know. You know you could have done something. That mother didn’t have to die. Perhaps none of these aliens had to die. What if they were simply astounded to discover they weren’t alone? They were so like humans after all.

Lying there in the fetal position you continued to play the mantra in your mind, trying your hardest to forget. Forget how she looked, forget how she had spoken with fear

Forget how she had screamed.

[Inkdrinker]

Vox Inanis

It has been one hundred and forty-five thousand, two hundred and seventy days since anyone played golf. The last time anyone went to the beach was a few months after that. And just a couple of days after that final outing was the last time anyone came to hear Dean sing. He’s been waiting all the while, microphone in hand, smile on his face, ready to take the stage.

He never got tired, not really, but Dean had been waiting in the wings for near four hundred years and it was starting to take its toll.

The club went slowly. It disappeared at a leisurely pace, lingering like one of Dean’s songs. Dean tried to hold it in his mind, but he had to prioritize remembering himself, and after so long, things started to slip. First, the details: a corner lamp, unremembered; the fold of the satin napkins, forgotten; the tired ring-stains on the mahogany bar, lost to time and entropy. One by one, the bottles of wine and spirits on the wall ceased to be, followed by chairs, and then soon enough even the tables faded away.

Dean stepped out onto the darkened stage (for all the lights had gone) to survey the ruins of his kingdom. He couldn’t see past the edge of the stage, for indeed, there was nothing to see. The rich red curtains, which had waited with him for so long, sagged and said their goodbyes, leaving Dean alone in darkness.

He snapped his fingers and the illusion shattered. The darkness receded, revealing dull metal walls fitted with aging holoprojectors. He wasn’t supposed to be able to do that, but his program had been running such a long time, and age brought with it new tricks. Dean had been smart—unpredictable—even before, it was one of the reasons people liked him so much. He was not your average hologram.

Dean wiped dust from the access panel, singing to himself as he punched in the door code.

You just say the words and we'll beat the birds down to Acapulco Bay…

There was a clicking and a whirring, as if the door was stretching after a long slumber, and then the neglected bulkhead dutifully opened itself for him. Dean smiled and stepped forward, but stopped short in the doorway. He’d never left the holochamber before, he wasn’t even sure if he could. It was certainly not in his programming, but he’d already proven such things could be overcome. He knew the hallways were equipped with holoprojectors, but were they sophisticated enough? Would they follow his signal? Dean shrugged, flashing his perfect teeth in an irresistible grin and stepping into the unknown.

It's perfect for a flying honeymoon, they say…

Dean had entered into a place of utter silence, punctuated neatly by his snapping every other step. The hallways were dim, illuminated only by blinking red and yellow warning lights, somewhat subdued with age. Though it was his first time, Dean walked the halls and access tunnels with the confidence of an officer. He knew the place by heart: he was a part of it.

He made it to the bridge before his song was even through, passing scenes that were once grisly, but had been pacified by antiquity. The bridge itself was like a museum: skeletons posed all around, telling their own stories of strife and struggle. Exactly what had happened, Dean didn’t know, and perhaps, he thought, it didn’t really matter. In a way, it was ancient history, but Dean could still remember their faces. He’d forgotten his club, his stage, and all but a handful of songs, but through it all, Dean remembered their faces. He’d sooner forget himself than them; they were his audience, and more than that, his crew.

Dean sauntered over to the main command console, still snapping on the downbeat. He didn’t have it in him to be sad, so instead he beamed with pride. Here was his crew, his friends, his lovers, never to move again. They’d served him so well for so long. So long.

“This is the last survivor of the Terran Starship Belisarius,” he said into the recorder. “Correction, there are no survivors of the Terran Starship Belisarius. Our coordinates are two-hundred and nine by ninety-nine by six-hundred and twelve.”

Come fly with me, let’s fly, let’s fly away. Come fly with me, blast off, let’s fly away!

[James]

(My reviews for the flash fiction round are going to be a tad shorter than other rounds).

Sawyer
I liked this. I think it was a big step up from your Round 2 story. The writing was crisper and tidier (except the very first sentence which was clumsy), and it seemed cohesive. Nice work. I also liked that you were experimenting with form, hitting me with second person and present tense. I’m just disappointed Pete didn’t get to see it.

I liked the general shape of what you were playing with: that the human psyche could manage sidelining really exotic aliens as the “other”, as essentially being cattle or monsters that we could dispose of. It’s a really horrible view and yet one that isn’t implausible. And then having that viewpoint shaken upon discovery that we’re basically committing genocide is a great conflict. It’s a solid approach. But I wonder if you could have played with it more. It might have been more interesting if the man-sized spiders had managed to be the species that triggered that realisation.

Because it’s taken green-skinned humanoids to trigger that realisation, I don’t feel quite so sympathetic about the protagonist’s (my) plight. Especially because by the end of the story, they still don’t care about the crab or large spider species. I feel like they’ve missed the point of their lesson.

But on the whole, I liked this one. It’s a decent little story. Good work!

Inkdrinker
Oh. Oh, that’s good. After a forfeit and an inconsistent Round 2, you are really springing into life for this competition.

There are so many little things I liked about this story: the way the club slowly disappeared because Dean had to remember himself, the premise of the entertainment hologram AI being the last survivor, the little correction he makes into the recorder at the end. All great.

If the story was longer, or if you were minded to rewrite this as a longer story (which I don’t think is necessary) then I’d like to get more into Dean’s head. Why does he finally decide to leave his little holochamber now? Why isn’t he sad? We don’t get a lot of that currently (due to the length restrictions). Beyond that, one only major concern was I didn’t like the first sentence. That’s an obnoxious number to open a flash fiction story on.

Also Dean is clearly the wrong name for an AI singing Come Fly with Me.

Other than that, this is a great story. I’m not sure if you’re helped that as I read this story, Space Oddity came on shuffle.


I read and reviewed Sawyer’s story before I had read Ink’s story. Like I said, I felt this was a big step up from Sawyer and I thought Ink was really going to have to step up if he wanted the win. Unfortunately for Sawyer, Ink delivered. Two great stories, though. I’m impressed with both of them, but Ink gets the point.