Escape Pod

By Marissa Lingen Read by The Word Whore Discuss on our forums. Originally appeared in Analog (2011) All stories by Marissa Lingen All stories read by The Word Whore Rated 13 and up Some of Them Closer Marissa Lingen Coming back to Earth was not the immediate shock they expected it to be for me. It was something, certainly, but I’d been catching up on the highlights of the news as it cascaded back to the ship on our relativistic return trip, and I never knew the island where we landed, when we left home twenty of our years ago and a hundred of theirs, so I expected it to look foreign to me, and it did. The sun was a little yellower than on New Landing, the plants friendlier. But I never thought of myself as an Earther. Even with the new system, hardly any of us do. I thought of myself as from Montreal. Quebecoise. Canadian, even. But Earther? No. I am far more provincial than the colonists whose home I built will ever be. I flew into the new place instead of Dorval. It looked like Dorval used to. It looked nearly exactly like Dorval used to, and I had a twinge of discomfort. The floors were curiously springy, though, which made me feel like something was different, and that was reassuring. There isn’t an Old Spacers’ Legion or anything like that to meet people like me coming in from off-planet–they did that on the little Brazilian island where we landed–but there was a department for Cultural Integration, meant for people traveling from elsewhere on Earth. They assigned me to a representative of the government, who greeted me in a French whose accent was nearly my own. To my ear it sounded more English, with the round vowels, but even with the new system I thought it might be rude to say that to a Quebecoise. The English-sounding French-speaker gave me a key to the four-room apartment they’d gotten me, not far from the Guy-Concordia Metro station. I told her I could take the Metro to it, but she smiled and said no, they’d have to get my things out of storage for me anyway. So we did that. There were only three boxes. Once you do the math on what will keep for a hundred years, it’s a lot easier to give away the things you can’t take with you. I gave them to my sister, who died, and whatever was left, she probably gave to her son, who had also died, or her daughter, who was retired and living comfortably in Senegal last I heard. So what I had left myself fit in three small plastic boxes, all labeled “Mireille Ayotte NL000014.” We terraformers all got two-digit numbers for our colonies, NL for New Landing, 14 because there were thirteen team members signed up before they took me. There was never any doubt they were going to take me. It was just a matter of where I wanted to go, and I wanted New Landing because the survey probes made the plants look promising, which I think they were. When I wasn’t catching up on Earth culture for the last hundred years, I was looking at reports from the other colonies, and I thought ours did the best with plant adaptation so far. I had to start thinking of New Landing as “theirs,” not “ours.” I could go back, of course, but by the time I got there they’d have gone on without me as well, and I’d just have the same thing as Montreal all over again: a city full of things that seem like they should look familiar, but they don’t. They had furnished my apartment with stylish clothes and furniture, and everything felt squishy and slightly damp. There was also entertainment in my handheld, and there were more tutorials in case I hadn’t had enough of them. The cupboards were stocked with food. They thought of everything. There was nothing for me to do but hang a very old photograph on the wall and go to bed. The bed, at least, was not squishy or damp. It felt like a ship’s bunk or a colony housing bed. They could do that properly still, and so I could sleep. My great-niece ca[...]

By Jay Caselberg Read by Mat Weller Discuss on our forums. Originally appeared in Electric Velocipede (2007) All stories by Jay Caselberg All stories read by Mat Weller Rated 17 and up for sexual situations The Garden of Earthly Delights Jay Caselberg Bosch drew deeply on his cigarette and exhaled slowly, watching the smoke paint clouds of tissue paper across the chill moon. If his hard-boned mouth had been capable of smiling, it would have. He’d tried to mimic the gesture often enough. He took one last drag at the cigarette, then flicked it out in a wide arc to scatter sparks against the broad stone steps. It was funny how compelling these human habits could be, even the ones they frowned upon. There was no risk for Bosch, but the humans seemed to like the fact that he had adopted one of their vices. It showed them he had his personal weakness. Compelling. It was less compulsion than convenient subterfuge, but they weren’t to know that. Smoking, and alcohol, and sex — particularly sex; the examples went on and on. “Ambassador Bosch, come to escape the crowd?” It was Davy, his shadow, his cultural liaison, assigned to keep him on the straight and narrow. Bosch turned his head to make eye contact. These humans liked eye contact. He whistled once and snapped his mouth, forgetting for a moment for the hundredth time that Davy could not understand. Quickly, he followed it with a series of signs using his three long fingers. Davy nodded and waited while Bosch withdrew his pad from inside his clothes, slipped the stylus from the carry case and tapped at the screen. Davy craned over Bosch’s shoulder to read, then glanced down at the still-smouldering cigarette end lying on the steps below. “Yes, I needed some fresh air as well. I think it’s going well, don’t you?” Bosch tapped at the pad once. As well as it could be, he thought, but Davy seemed satisfied. The smooth, dark-haired human leaned his head back and looked up at the stars. “Yes, a good night for it,” he said. A good night for what? Often, these little expressions eluded Bosch. Expressions, cultural behaviours, so many things. Inside, the reception swirled and circulated and networked and did all the things that these events did. The diplomats and attachés held glasses and mingled with functionaries and celebrities, engaging in polite conversation, or dealing, heads tilted close together, with matters of extreme import to their tiny little world. Bosch was out here to escape the incessant looks, the asides, the little nuances of meaning that he had learned so quickly to interpret. What was it about an alien being that excited them so much? The human culture was ridden with vices of various sorts. It was yet another thing that showed their pathetic weakness. The higher up they became, the more elevated, the more they showed their true natures. It might be behind closed doors, but it was there, all the same. To some extent, he was shielded from the general populace by Davy and by others like him. Perhaps these weaknesses really did extend throughout the entire population, but he found it hard to imagine how the race could survive if it were true. Ultimately, it was why he’d made the choice. Bosch. Bosch was a good name. When he’d learned how to see them, how to look at them with human eyes to find the meaning, that particular painter among many had revealed multiple things about this race. Bosch, and Goya, Dali, the others. Ambassador Bosch had looked, he had studied, and he had learned. The educational and cultural tours the humans had been so quick to provide had revealed so much. It was only about a month after arrival that he had finally decided to take the name as his own. The libraries had been most revealing too, but he’d decided to stay with the painter’s name. It had a certain gravitas. “Ambassador Bosch,” said Davy. “We should really be getting back inside. It would be hard for you not to be miss[...]

By Brad Hafford Read by Al Stuart Discuss on our forums. Originally appeared in Reflection’s Edge, 2010 All stories by Brad Hafford All stories read by Al Stuart Rated 13 and up for language Brought to you by Audible! Techno-Rat by Brad Hafford West London was, as always, abuzz. Even at 4:00 AM on a chilly November Tuesday, electric motorcars whirred down Kings Road, zipping people along, early to work or late from parties. The residential side streets, however, were quiet. Lined with parked cars, occasional street lamps, and darkened flats, they dozed peacefully. Ornate houses huddled in gracefully curving queues, awaiting the sunrise with little attention to the two figures loitering outside their narrow, iron-fenced entryways. “There it is, innit?” the scrawnier figure said, pointing to a parked car. “D’ya see?” The taller man stared intently at the vehicle. “See what?” he said, his breath misting in the frosty air. Their eyes were fixed on a car sitting at the curb of a constricted street in Chelsea, part of the fashionable Kensington district. It was a brown cabriolet with a weather-worn faux leather top. An aging example, its low-light number plates showed it to be registered ten years previously. Its MOT and inspection were up to date, but its bonnet was dented and its windscreen cracked. Such an automobile did not belong in Chelsea. But neither did the two men examining it. The smaller of the two impatiently tugged on the grey flatcap he wore. “Pay attention, Mik,” he sniped. “We in’t got all night.” Clipped words and rounded vowels marked his speech. The bells of St. Mary’s were ancient history and the East End had long since been gentrified, but he was retro-Cockney. “I’m paying as much attention as I’ve got, Artie. More, really. I just don’t see it.” “It’s a slight vibration, see. An ’ologram shift called glitching. The generator keeps the image dynamic, right. So it has to refresh at a specific rate.” He tapped his nose, a signal that he was imparting secrets. “Oy, there it goes again!” “I still don’t see it.” “And you fink you got what it takes to be a Techno-Rat?” “It was Uncle Lazlo’s idea, not mine.” Mik said. His speech was not as thick as his teacher’s. It carried the calmer, neutral accent of the Midlands. “’E was a great tea leaf, was Lazlo Utzbahn, but ’e’s been ’round for yonks. Since afore the ’lectric laws. Maybe his judgement’s gone tits up.” “Give me a break, Artie. I’m trying, you know.” “Awright, awright. Look down this street. What d’ya see?” “A bunch of cars.” “No, you stupid tosser. You see a bunch o’ targets. Now, which d’ya go for?” Mik examined the narrow street, a mere alleyway but packed with sleeping transport. It was a car thief’s dream. Some of the latest models lay there, prime for the taking. But despite the calm appearance of the darkened streets, security was tight. “Um, that one.” Mik pointed to an angular contraption glistening like mercury frozen in ice. “The shiny one with the big fins.” “Crikey! Could’ya be more obvious? Even if you got past its AI, you’d be spotted in a second, mate. Plus it’s all show. The Tatzu Shark breaks down every hundred kilometers like clockwork. It’s utter bollocks. Try again.” “Could you, uh, give us a clue?” “Watch for the tar, mate. Watch for the tar.” “Tar?” “Cor, you are green, in’t ya? Tar and pitch–glitch!” “But I don’t see this glitch, or tar, or whatever it is.” “It’s like I been tryin’ to show ya. Watch this ’ere cabriolet close-like. Wait fer it… There!” Mik’s light blue eyes flickered with recognition. “Hey, I saw it that time! Like it glittered for a second.” “More like a nanosecond, mate. And as generators go, this one’s shite. For the pico-second freqs, you gotta be damn good.” Artie positioned Mik by the passenger door of the car. “Now touch it,” he said. “Feel the roof.” Mik pushed up the sleeve of his dark blue anorak as if to put his hand in a bucket of water. “Take off the gloves you berk,” Artie chastised. “B[...]

By Rajan Khanna Read by Josh Roseman Discuss on our forums. Originally appeared in Basement Stories Issue 1 (2010) All stories by Rajan Khanna All stories read by Josh Roseman Rated 17 and up for sexual situations Flowing Shapes Rajan Khanna Part One: Contemplation The human came to She Shalu on the Day of Flowering Awareness. Damo met him near the Still Garden, the fumes of the exiting shuttle mixing with the sharp spice of the tall, white twizak plant. Damo wore a humanoid shape so as to minimize the stranger’s discomfort. Damo studied the human with the practiced eyes of a Synan. Dark hair covered his head and parts of his body, and he was sleight of build, despite the solidity of his form. About 1.7 meters tall. His features were mostly smooth, bones prominent, eyes with the barest hint of a slant. A mouth surrounded by full lips. “How may I help you?” Damo said, trying to sound gracious. “I came to study Wan She,” the human said. Damo felt his features flow with his astonishment. Perhaps he had not heard correctly, or his translation module was malfunctioning. “I am sorry,” he said. “Wan She is the Path of Flowing Shapes. It is a Synan practice. Humans, being incapable of shifting, cannot practice it.” The human smiled, revealing straight, white teeth. “I know. I’m writing a book,” he said. “But isn’t it true that the first stage is concerned solely with contemplation? Surely that is not beyond a human.” Damo stifled his urge to shift in response to his unease. Uncontrolled shifting was against the teachings of Wan She. “That is true,” he said. “But Wan She is a path. Not a series of distinct teachings. To step on that path is to begin a journey.” “All I ask is that you let me speak to your Tanshe. Let him decide.” Damo was all too willing to accommodate the human in this. Let the Tanshe decide. It certainly saved Damo the trouble of having to assimilate this odd request. “Please follow me,” he said. He led the human through the Still Garden, inhaling the heady scent of it, delighting in its exoticness. Most of the students overlooked the Still Garden, and in doing so missed out on one of the true beauties of She Shalu. They moved through the pearlescent designs of the sanctuary’s hallways to the Tanshe’s bubbled door. “Wait here,” Damo said, then entered. The Tanshe was in an original form, multilimbed, eyeless, lacking both ears and nose. Turning inward. Her bright amber skin was splattered with black inky spots. She looked up as Damo entered, eyes appearing from inside her face. Damo let his features droop in the customary manner. “Tanshe, there is a human to see you.” The Tanshe’s features flowed and shifted until they were almost exactly a human’s. “Send it in,” she said. “And wait outside.” Damo’s skin settled. He was not to be involved in this discussion. It was good. The Tanshe would deal with it and send the human away. Damo did as the Tanshe asked. He waited outside, letting his features relax into the default Synan shape. He’d worn the humanoid one as a courtesy, and because it was polite and expected, but he disliked it. It was distasteful. Too firm. Too set. He waited for some time, then the door bubble opened. He quickly shifted back into his humanoid form and turned to face the human, now exiting. “She told me to send you in,” the human said. Damo looked at the human’s firm, immobile face. So alien. So disgusting. Damo entered. “Yes, Tanshe?” “I have decided to accept the human’s request to stay with us.” “Tanshe?” Damo’s features wavered. “I believe it will be beneficial for us,” the Tanshe said. “He is to be placed with the other novices in the First Stage. He will write about the Path. He will be an observer.” “Yes, Tansh[...]

By Jay Werkheiser Read by Dave Thompson Discuss on our forums. Originally appeared in Analog, 2010 All stories by Jay Werkheiser All stories read by Dave Thompson Rated 10 and up Contamination By Jay Werkheiser Ari allowed his skimmer to brush the outer edge of Nouvelle Terre’s atmosphere. He tried to imagine air jostling the light nanofiber support frame, whistling through the skimmer’s magsails. Excitement pulsed through his veins at the thought of being so close to the blue-and-white surface, perhaps closer than any human had ever dared. Nothing but his skinsuit and a few hundred kilometers of atmosphere separated him from the living, breathing landscape below. He spread his arms and legs, trying to feel the miniscule tug of atmospheric drag. Is that what wind feels like? His faceplate HUD showed a ripple in the magsail’s yaw loop. The threat of a coil collapse brought his mind back into focus, and he hiked up the field strength to gain some altitude. He savored every precious minute the skimmer took to climb away from the atmosphere. Nouvelle Terre’s secondary sun climbed over the horizon, visible only because the primary sun hadn’t yet risen. He scanned the starry sky, taking advantage of the view before primary sunrise darkened his faceplate. Earth’s distant sun was almost directly overhead, a pinpoint at the tail of a zig-zag of stars. The drive flare that cut across the constellation chilled his good mood. After a generation of silence, what could the Earth people possibly want? Bah. Figuring that out was the job of bureaucrats. Ari preferred jockeying around with a skimmer, launching and retrieving microprobes, and taking time to enjoy the freedom of flight. Before long, the Gardien rose above the limb of the planet. He’d be home within a half hour, pining for his next chance to fly free. “That you, Ari?” If his solitude had to be interrupted by a human voice, he could do worse than Maura’s. “Who else would it be?” He knew damn well who she was afraid it might be. He tilted his head upward toward the spear of light that dominated the sky. A new ship from Earth arriving unannounced after all these years was reason enough to be on edge. “I’ll have your approach vector in a moment.” Maura’s image in his faceplate wore the drive flare like a burning gash on her forehead. “Your drop was perfect. The microprobe will skim the atmosphere deep enough to pick up some dust samples, but high enough to avoid surface contamination. With any luck, some of those dust grains will carry living spores.” “We wouldn’t need luck if they’d let us dive lower. Damn Earthborn are too cautious.” “You managed to get a pretty deep dive on that last orbit.” She pursed her lips in mock disapproval. “You’re going to catch hell for your little maneuver.” “What? I was just dropping low for a perigee kick.” Her laugh was pure music. “Good luck getting the director to buy that one. She’s in a foul mood.” He snorted, momentarily fogging his faceplate. “She doesn’t need my help. Dear old Mom takes foul to a new level, even for an Earthborn.” “Don’t be cruel. They earned the right to be grumpy.” “Maybe they’d be more caring if they hadn’t cranked us out of their wombs like an assembly line.” “Have some respect. You don’t know how long they’ll be around.” “We’ll be restocking our supply of Earthborn soon, from the looks of it.” He gestured toward the light as he spoke, even though his helmet’s cam couldn’t show it. “It warms my heart to know that even the Secretary-General has no idea why Earth sent a second ship after all these years.” She huffed. “You have no respect for authority, Ari.” “It’s all part of my char[...]

By Gwendolyn Clare Read by Mur Lafferty Discuss on our forums. Originally appeared in Asimov’s, 2011 All stories by Gwendolyn Clare All stories read by Mur Lafferty Rated 13 and up Ashes on the Water by Gwendolyn Clare I hoped that Ranjeet’s friends were as disreputable as promised.  Ranjeet himself was late, of course.  I’d asked him to park his car out on the road and meet me behind the house–my cousin is, shall we say, out of favor, and I couldn’t afford to get caught with him.  So I sat on the dry, cracked ground in the shadow of the house, waiting where Father wouldn’t think to look for me.  A meter away, heat rose off the sun-baked earth, wavering like water, as if the dormant land dreamed of monsoon season.  I shut my eyes against the image.  For years now, each summer has come harsher than the last. Soft footsteps in the dirt, and Ranjeet strolled around the corner of the house, calling, “You’ll never make it across the border, kid.” I stood up and brushed the dust off my jeans, annoyed. Seventeen and he still calls me a kid.  “Why don’t you say that a little louder?  I don’t think the neighbors could hear you clearly.” The closest neighbors live on the other side of a one-hectare vacant field that used to be the mango grove, before the mango trees withered.  I used to sit on Father’s shoulders to help with the harvest when I was small.  He keeps saying we’re going to replant the grove, but nobody’s all that eager to dig up the dead roots. Ranjeet folded his arms and leaned back against the side of the house.  “You know it’s true.” “Did you get the papers for me, or not?” He pulled a thick envelope out of the inner pocket of his cream-colored sportcoat, but he held on to it, turning it over in his hands.  “What are you planning to do, smuggle it in your shoes? You’re going to get caught.” I held out my empty palm impatiently.  “What do I owe you?” “Nothing.  This is a family matter, Riti.”  He passed the envelope reluctantly.  “Just don’t tell anyone where you got this.” My fingers itched to open the envelope, but it would be rude to check the quality of the forgery with Ranjeet watching.  “You know I have to go.  I owe her that much.” “She wouldn’t have asked you for this.” “She didn’t need to.”  I would have given her much more without her asking.  I wished I could trade places and let her be the one to live, but I couldn’t.  All I had was this one thing left to do. # The day Priya died, I saved my water ration for washing the body. Father did not approve.  He said we didn’t have the luxury of adhering to the old customs anymore.  He said I was being foolish, hurting myself for the sake of my dead sister.  Her soul had moved on, after all.  The body was just an empty shell.  He said that God had taken her. Mother didn’t say anything at all.  She went out to sit on the balcony overlooking the almond grove.  Hands folded in her lap, she stared into the distance with dry, tired eyes.  The youngest of the almond trees were planted when I was seven, and Mother used to sit up there to watch Priya and me watering the saplings through their first difficult summer.  I wondered if she thought about that, now.  She refused to eat or drink, or even sleep.  I think she scared Father. That left Grandmother and me to wash Priya and change her clothes.  Grandmother’s fingers look as brittle as old sticks, but she held the sponge steadily, patting it against Priya’s cold skin with a serene gentleness.  Mine were the hands that shook while I brushed out my sister’s lustrous dark hair. At least her eyes were closed.  There had always been something in her eyes–a deep compassion, as if she really saw not just me, but everyone–and I didn’t want to k[...]

By Gareth Owens Read by Pip Ballantine Discuss on our forums. Originally appeared in Immersion Book of Steampunk All stories by Gareth Owens All stories read by Pip Ballantine Rated 13 and up Follow that Cathedral! By Gareth Owens …and with that Pixie dived from the open door of the Zeppelin. The air around her suddenly becoming liquid, rushing over the smooth leather of her helmet and bringing tears to her eyes. “Always some bloody thing!” she grinned into the gale, falling headlong towards the welcoming embraces of Mother Earth and Mother Russia below. Siberian night enveloped her, storm filled frozen darkness, cloud shrouded full moon, and below, the steam powered lightning of The Iron Czar. A hissing, glowing, monster of a train, three storeys high, and even longer than the leviathan Fourteen Bags of Mischief hanging above. Pixie saw the orange furnaces erupting sparks through the twin stacks, as if Hephaestus himself stoked on the imperial railways. Kirby wires between Pixie and the nose of the airship took up the slack, her harness tightened, squeezing the breath from her as she slid down the gradient gravity prescribes for a pendulum. Spreading her arms out wide she released the winglets of her full-length leather drop-coat, ankle wings for trim springing from her boots. Suddenly the harness became her trapeze and she somersaulted with creak of leather, freed into the hundred-knot headwind. Orange fire below and frozen storm above, these were the moments Pixie lived for. Card tricks in the dark. A moment of genius for her own consumption and not for the sharing. She flew alone, arms wide, graceful as an angel dancer sweeping over a darkened stage. The first swing reached the peak of gravity assistance and Pixie saw the roof of the train below her slow in comparison, stopping for a second just past the midpoint of her pendulum arc, then once more seeming to gather pace against her, leaving her trailing as she fell back. “There have got to be easier ways for a pirate girl to catch a train,” she said. With an emphatic flick, she opened her drop-coat out wide, catching the full blast of the wind, whipping her back up the arc of swing like a human kite. Then, pulling her arms into her sides she rocketed forwards again, a bullet through the air, streamlining, catching the train once more but this time lower as Jeti tried to match the altitude of the dirigible. Eyes wide, Pixie saw the end of the last carriage, a black wall lit with a single dim red eye of a lamp. A sudden graunch through the cable, the winch bit, dragging her six feet further up in the air. Her speed increased as the cable shortened. She flew far too close and far too fast, sweeping up, only just carrying over the edge of the roof, arms held out backwards like the Spirit of Ecstasy. The bitter smelling pitch of the Russian rustproof coating mere inches below her nose. She lifted at the end of the swing, snapping upright, and with a perfect matching of momentum, she stood, placing her boots down and solid on Imperial rolling stock. A single twist to the circular brass locking clasp and she shrugged free of the harness and drop-coat, before it could pull her over backwards. Jingling cable fading away into the storm as her crew winched it back. Pixie’s knee length mini-crini sprang back into shape, like a chrysanthemum released from a fist. She wore the dark red corset, all the rage in St Petersburg Jeti assured her, but always with that twinkle in her eye. Pixie never knew whether her second-in-command was joking at her expense or not. Pixie set off at the run towards the storming volcano of the armour-plated engine. She knew she should put Jeti off at the next port, but she just couldn’t do it to her. Dear, sweet Jeti van Borkel, the girl might not have been the best steersman this side of the Roaring Forties, but she did have such a cute popo, particularly in those Oxford bags she wore. Momentarily distracted, Pixie nearly tripped over a spinning [...]

By Scott W. Baker Read by Mat Weller Discuss on our forums. Originally appeared in Triangulation anthology (2004) All stories by Scott W. Baker All stories read by Mat Weller Rated 13 and up Chasers by Scott W. Baker Sebastian’s organs squeezed into his pelvis as he accelerated past point-one.  He had a good feeling this time.  This catch was going to be his. He could see his objective ahead of him, the enormous Drifter-class colony ship Calypso barreling through space on her inertial journey from Earth to Terra III.  Since she carried no fuel for deceleration, Calypso would travel through space forever without Chasers like Sebastian.  It was the job of a Chaser to run down Drifters and fill their tanks.  The job had sounded easy when he signed with Mulligan Mining eight months ago.  But despite nine arrivals since then, Sebastian has not made one catch. Calypso was a slow Drifter at a mere point-13 c.  Surely he could catch that.  His Skeeter was designed to reach point-2, faster and more maneuverable than any other company’s ships.  Yet what advantages Skeeters held in speed and agility they sacrificed in capacity.  Even if he caught the Drifter, it took a total of three Skeeters to fill her. Sebastian ran a scan of Calypso.  Leonard was already docked.  That was too fast for him to have waited for the Drifter’s beacon; he must have taken his Skeeter out without confirmation a Drifter was coming in.  Lucky.  Blind patrols were expensive gambles, especially on a Chaser’s budget.  The exorbitant price of fuel on Earth was the primary reason Drifter-class colonizers dominated the colonization market, and a booming fuel industry made Terra III the most popular destination.  Like most things, it boiled down to money. A pair of blips appeared on Sebastian’s nav screen. Two ships were approaching from behind.  The tiny blip indicated the presence of another Skeeter, the third they’d need to fill the Calypso.  The larger blip was an Essex Bus, a hundred-percent capacity tanker from a rival fuel company.  Rather, Essex was the rival of Mulligan.   Both Sebastian and the other Skeeter would have to beat this Bus if Mulligan was going to make the sale.  If the Bus docked first, the sale would go to Essex.  One Bus could do the job of three Skeeters, assuming it could get to the colony ship first. Sebastian pushed his engines harder. The big blip was moving fast for a ship its size.  It drew closer until Sebastian could see it through his canopy.  It was more than three times the size of his little Skeeter and was now careening at point-16 c.  “Damn,” Sebastian whispered as he was overtaken, “I thought Busses maxed out at point-15.”  It was the reason Sebastian had signed with Mulligan instead of Essex: the need for speed.  Busses just weren’t meant to go that fast.  But even one percent of the speed of light could mean the difference between a bonus check and a long flight back to port.  If a Chaser could finagle a little extra zip out of his ship, he did.  Apparently this Bus pilot was a finagler. Sebastian adjusted his fuel ratios and pushed his engines even harder.  The ship began to vibrate around him.  Still the Bus pulled away.  “One Skeeter already on and Essex is going to get the sale anyway,” Sebastian said.  He started the calculations for his return to port. “You ain’t giving up, are you?” a voice croaked across the closed-circuit communicator.  Closed-circuit meant it was another Mulligan pilot. “Repeat?” Sebastian replied. “Bas, that you?”  Only one person ever called him Bas. “Roger, this is Sebastian.  What’s your twenty, Wild?” “I’ll be on your screen in a shake.” “Don’t bother.  I was just passed by a Bus going point-16.” “Isn’t Freebird already on?”  Wild meant Leonard.  He refused to call anyone by their actual name, inclu[...]

By Philip Brewer Read by Tim Crist Discuss on our forums. Originally appeared in Redstone Science Fiction (2011) All stories by Philip Brewer All stories read by Tim Crist Rated 15 and up for language Like a Hawk in Its Gyre by Philip Brewer The bicycle noticed someone was following before Kurt did. Watching for a tail was a habit he’d finally broken himself of, but not before the bicycle’s impressionable brain had picked it up. Its low warning hum sent a thrill of adrenalin through him, giving power to the part of his brain that wanted him to sprint away. Kurt glanced back down the single track. The trees were already beginning to turn fall colors around the edges of the forest, but here along the narrow trail the foliage was green and thick. Resisting the urge to pick up the pace, he continued on, looking back when he could take his eyes off the trail, and after a few moments caught sight of what the bicycle had seen. “It’s just another cyclist,” Kurt said, reaching down to pat the bicycle’s yellow-and-black, hornet-striped frame. The bicycle didn’t understand–its brain was small and lacked the regions for understanding speech–but Kurt’s tone of voice calmed it and the warning hum grew softer and less anxious. The end of the trail, a scenic overlook above the Vermillion River, was not far ahead, but the overtaking bicyclist was approaching even faster. The polite thing to do would be to find a place to pull off the trail and let the cyclist past. But there were no surveillance devices in the forest, and Kurt couldn’t face meeting someone out of sight of some sort of watching eyes. At just the thought of it, his adrenaline surged again. Letting his brain chemistry have its way with him, Kurt leaned low over his handlebars and pedaled hard. With its good forward eyes, the bicycle watched the trail, sending little twitches into the steering to help Kurt take the best line. On the road it didn’t make much difference, but on a technical trail the bicycle’s assist could add several percent to his speed. Giving in to the urge to sprint away took some of the pressure off, enough that Kurt had a chance to think. The urge to find surveillance cameras–the need to do nothing that wasn’t observed–was one that he’d had some time to get used to. Even, to an extent, come to terms with. What his brain needed was watching eyes. It wanted surveillance cameras, but those weren’t the only kind of eyes. His own two didn’t count, but there were others. His bicycle had eight. And the forest was full of eyes. He could hear a woodpecker hammering not far off, the buzzing of deer flies around his head, and rustlings in the litter that might be frogs or small mammals. They all had eyes. Focusing on that, Kurt was able to ease his speed down and brake to a stop as he reached the end of the trail, where a wide, clear area looked out over the river. Breathing hard, he looked back down the trail. He started to reach for his water bottle, but the trembling in his hand made him wait. The approaching rider was dressed like a cyclist–lycra shorts, padded gloves, helmet, wrap-around amber shades. The bike had a rack over the rear wheel and a large bag, as big as the bag that Kurt had on his own bike, big enough for a picnic lunch and a six-pack of beer. The man angled toward the other side of the viewing area and jumped off his bike a good distance away. Kurt began to relax. The lack of surveillance was fine if they didn’t interact. The clearing, nearly flat until it dipped sharply down to the river, began to feel a little more comfortable. His breathing slowed and he calmed down enough to smell the moist dirt. He pulled out his water bottle. “Hello, Kurt,” said the man. Kurt’s hand tightened, forcing a narrow spray of water out the top of the bottle. “My name’s Starkweather. [...]

By Jetse de Vries Read by Nathan Lowell Discuss on our forums. An Escape Pod Original! All stories by Jetse de Vries All stories read by Nathan Lowell Rated 15 and up for language Connoisseurs of the Eccentric by Jetse de Vries Salvador Dalí took his pet ocelot to a New York restaurant, where a woman protested that wild animals were being allowed in. Dalí replied it was only a cat he’d painted in op-art style. The woman looked closer: “Now I can see it’s a cat,” she said. “At first, I thought it was an ocelot.” Seated near the swimming pool in the artist’s retreat in Port Lligat, a BBC interviewer said that he had “heared that Dalí was unkind to animals. Was that true?” “Dalí cruel to ze animal?” The artist exclaimed, “Nevair!” After which he picked up his pet ocelot and hurled it into the swimming pool. —Eccentric anecdotes; I SEE HER arriving in her private vacuum zeppelin, flying over the rewilded mountains of the Nagasaki peninsula, while I’m tending the extreme bonsai wine garden on top of my farmscraper. Expertly manoeuvering through the photovoltaic city forest, the zep berthes at the telescopic docking station. It gives me time to change from my gardening attire into something more formal. Originally, she found me through my hyperdense pinot noir à la bonsaïe, almost two decades ago. Back then, I proudly showed her my grotto garden, but she quickly decided that she liked my ecological acumen better than my micro bonsai specimen. Today, for the second time only, she comes unnanounced. I come prepared, but even my Icho’s ‘the power of light and shadow’ complemented with a pair of Peron & Peron’s is no match for the way Afri Kamari makes an off-the-shelf, demure business suit look like haute couture. Above ebony cheekbones: deep brown eyes that see straight through you. Under a head of long, thick, fine curls: a brain that never shifts from top gear. Inside a very conservative skirtsuit: an animated sensuality that puts any anime girl to shame. Thousands of times I’ve talked with her over vidcon and — recently — EPIT-link: but when I see her in the flesh, I’m both entranced and edgy. I open my special cabinet and start uncorking my Takashima pinot noir — still the most exclusive wine in the world — to celebrate her extremely rare personal visit. She takes her time to smell, taste and enjoy it. Not bad for a beer aficionado, part of me thinks, while another part wishes she would cut to the chase. Neither needs to wait long. “Superb,” she says, “the Delirium Nocturnum of wine.” “Which you didn’t find special enough to sell to the aliens.” I remind her. “It’s phenomenal craftsmanship, second to none, but not quite . . . eccentric enough.” “Well, you are the true connoisseur,” I try to hide my frustration behind my half-full glass, in vain, “the best of the world.” “The best of this world.” Her eyes shine like crazy diamonds. “It’s time to expand the market.” “You don’t need me for the mad part of your schemes. Am I not the orderly yin to your chaotic yang?” “I do. You can deliver a quintessential part for this project.” The moment I’ve most feared and longed for in my life. “What is it?” Her amused smile broadens. “Your soul.” # THE ALIENS ARE still alien. After twenty years, nobody knows how they look like, where they came from or even how many there are. Yet, out of the grey they came. Of all places, the search for extra-terrestrial intelligence ended when it received a clear, unencrypted message from the Moon, about the only place where SETI wasn’t looking. The aliens said they declined to say who they were and where they came from, as that was ‘irrelevant’. They said they came in peace, looking for trade. They declared the Moon off-limits, while the rest of our solar system was open ‘to explore as you see fit’. The trade items they were looking for were something else: they weren’t interested in our science & technology, art & history or culture & biology in general. They didn’t want to tell us[...]

By CR Hodges Read by Mur Lafferty Discuss on our forums. Originally appeared in On the Premises (2011) All stories by CR Hodges All stories read by Mur Lafferty Rated 15 and up for language Three-Quarters Martian C.R. Hodges The first man to walk on the moon was a hero to five generations. The first woman to walk on Mars was forgotten even before her boots plunked into the red dust.   “Hey,” a husky voice said in the dark. I ignored her: the Swedish hockey team was calling to me from the sauna. “Anna-Jing.” Same voice. A large hand grasped my shoulder. I was losing my battle to recapture the fading dream. “Wake up,” commanded a new voice in a rich brogue, “now.” I took a deep breath, tasting the dust in the cool air, then slowly opened my eyes. Pulling the threadbare blanket around me, I sat up in my hammock. Kaiza, the first and likely last aboriginal Australian to teach planetary astrophysics at Stanford, gently removed her hand from my shoulder. “Trouble in Florida.” “The launch isn’t today.” I said, still groggy. Our resupply rocket was scheduled to lift off from Cape Lee in a week. We needed this one—the last launch, from Kazakhstan, had crashed in West Korea. “There won’t be a fecking launch,” said Mick, our mission commander. He gestured at the wall screen, which snapped to life. Grainy footage showed a giant rocket lying on its side like a beached whale, next to a familiar gantry. A dozen old pickups were parked beyond the shattered nosecone. Scores of horses and four oxen grazed nearby, a web of cables and ropes leading back to the rocket. A horde of men and women in shorts and tank tops, flip-flops and baseball caps, were prying metal panels from the side of the rocket. Hundreds more lay dead on the ground, interspersed with the bodies of gray vested soldiers. “Where are the pitchforks and torches?” I asked. No reply. A helicopter arrived, ten commandos zip lining to the ground just meters from the camera crew. Seventy looters went down in the first minute, but then flight after flight of arrows from unseen archers decimated the commandos. “Goodbye freeze-dried steak and potatoes,” said Mick. “Goodbye replacement mini reactor.” I pointed at the four oxen dragging a sledge with a brightly marked container the size of a large desk. “Gotta crank the thermostat down again,” said Mick. He lumbered off to make it so. The last image we witnessed before a sword crashed down on the camera lens was a line of children siphoning kerosene from the rocket’s fuel tank into buckets. Goodbye civilization. # Carrying a basket of mushrooms three times my size, I trudged back to the main module from the redhouse. As I passed the Gagarin, I searched for those first boot prints—my boot prints—but they were covered in dust. I should’ve at least gotten a shoe contract. The crew was waiting for me just inside the airlock. The mushrooms, the one food item that we could grow in near native conditions, added flavor to endless soy based meals despite being red and gritty. They were not, however, tasty enough to warrant an all hands greeting. “The Chinese sent the offer,” said Gabriel before I had my helmet off. He was our geologist and physician. “And what is the emperor proposing?” I asked. It had been three weeks of frustrating negotiations. We desperately needed provisions; they had the only rockets left. Mick shrugged and tossed me the tablet. “My Mandarin is limited to ordering up pints and whores.” “He’d pay more for a pint,” said Olga, my copilot and Mick’s former hammock buddy. Her quirky sense of humor had helped us through numerous rough patches over the years, but it was getting old. I scrolled through the long winded missive until I got to the crux of the deal. I looked up. Really up—the rest of the crew dwarfed me. Even Gabriel had fifteen centimeters on me, and he could have been a jockey. “They’re offering to send us a rocket full of supplies.” “In return for?” asked Kaiza. “Planting their flag on Olympus Mons.” “Feckin[...]

By Cat Rambo Read by The Word Whore of Air Out My Shorts Guest Host: The Word Whore Discuss on our forums. An Escape Pod Original! All stories by Cat Rambo All stories read by The Word Whore Rated 13 and up for language Grandmother by Cat Rambo Most people called her Phoenix. Her former crew used “Captain” before that and “Sir” afterward. Ruby and Ada respectively called her “mother” and “g’ma.” Her hair was silver – not white, but genuine, metallic silver, a long fall against her pale blue skin, the color of a shadow on a piece of willow ware, that made her seems ageless despite the century and more that lay upon her, not to mention all those decades of pirating. They said she’d been the best slideboard rider of her time, and perhaps the best battleship pilot of all time, back before her parents and sister were killed and she turned rogue. They said she had done terrible things in her pirate days. They said she’d been ruthless in her rise to power, moving up the chain from god knows where, an origin she’d never, ever spoken of to anyone, not even her own daughter. She’d killed some captains, slept with others, called in favors and maneuvered and betrayed and seized power with a brutal efficiency that still underlay what now seemed a calm and orderly, rules-bound government that she and Mukopadhyay had created. They said she had killed hundreds, perhaps thousands, of people — sometimes at a distance, sometimes up close, with knife or fist. They said she’d killed a crew member when the shuttle she was in needed its mass reduced and the man hadn’t even argued, just nodded and stepped into the airlock, never said a word as the door closed and the lock cycled, staring in at his captain as she stared back. They said time had mellowed her.
 They said working with Mukopadhyay, even though he was crazy as a spiral comet, had mellowed her. They said helping colonize a whole planet, setting up its government, the rich and intricate power structure that now encompassed the whole solar system called Shiva, had mellowed her. Not to mention motherhood, they said, a change which no pregnant woman escapes. It alters the hormones in your body. Softens you. Makes you less rash, less harsh. Takes away even the sharpest edge, not to mention the hormonal craziness, which some women never recover from, after all. Sure, changes you in a good way, they were quick to say. 
But definitely softer. They said she’d never do those sorts of things now. #
 Phoenix left the curtain fall back into place. The blue velvet slid silently. The street lamp’s stripe of white light that had sliced across her face as she looked out was extinguished as quickly as a candle in the high-ceilinged dressing room’s dim light. She said, “The weather is terrible for this. It always is. Why we chose this time of year for Founding Day, I don’t know.” Her gown was armor and stiff brocade and jewels, the last crusted along hem and collar, cobalt crystals fastened in place with a netting of braided gold thread. More such jewels made up the elaborate earrings she wore, which ran along the lobe and upward, flaring to cup the almost-elvish point. Gareth guessed that none of it was her original appearance. And what did that mean, that this woman choose to present herself as a creature of blue glass and silver lines, that she’d chosen to have two moth-like antennae implanted on her forehead, curled close and hidden as eyebrows most of the time, but capable of uncurling to sample the air? Few saw those. Only his status as latest lover, as consort-in-training, had allowed him ingress to her bedchamber and the moments when she lay against silver satin that blended with the shimmer of her hair. Hard to imagine those moments now, when she looked forged of authority and iron. She belied that look — was ever woman so changeable? — as she came towards him, stooped to where he sat on the foot of [...]

By Ken Liu Read by Tom Rockwell Discuss on our forums. First appeared in Digital Science Fiction Volume 1 (2011) All stories by Ken Liu All stories read by Tom Rockwell Rated 13 and up The Caretaker by Ken Liu Motors whining, the machine squats down next to the bed, holding its arms out parallel to the ground. The metal fingers ball up into fist-shaped handholds. The robot has transformed into something like a wheelchair with treads, its lap the seat where my backside is supposed to fit. A swiveling, flexible metal neck rises over the back of the chair, at the end of which are a pair of camera lenses with lens hood flaps on top like tilted eyebrows. There’s a speaker below the cameras, covered by metal lips. The effect is a cartoonish imitation of a face. “It’s ugly,” I say. I try to come up with more, but that’s the only thing I can think of. Lying on the bed with my back and neck propped up by all these pillows reminds me of long-ago Saturday mornings, when I used to sit up like this in bed, trying to catch up on grading while Peggy was still asleep next to me. Suddenly, Tom and Ellen would burst through the bedroom door without knocking and jump into the bed, landing on top of us in a heap, smelling of warm blankets and clamoring for breakfast. Except now my left leg is a useless weight, anchoring me to the mattress. The space next to me is empty. And Tom and Ellen, standing behind the robot, have children of their own. “It’s reliable,” Tom says. Then he seems to have run out of things to say, too. My son is like me, awkward with words when the emotions get complicated. After a few seconds of silence, his sister steps forward and stands next to the robot. Gently, she bends down to put a hand on my shoulder. “Dad, Tom is running out of vacation days. And I can’t take any more time off either because I need to be with my husband and kids. We think this is best. It’s a lot cheaper than a live-in aide.” It occurs to me that this would make an excellent illustration of the arrow of time: the care that parents devote to children is asymmetrical with the care that their children can reciprocate. Far more vivid than any talk of entropy. Too bad I no longer have students to explain this to. The high school has already hired a new physics teacher and baseball coach. I don’t want to get maudlin here and start quoting Lear. Hadn’t Peggy and I each left our parents to the care of strangers in faraway homes? That’s life. Who wants to weigh their children down the way my body now weighs me down? My guilt should trump theirs. We are a nation built on the promise that there are no roots. Every generation must be free to begin afresh somewhere else, leaving the old behind like fallen leaves. I wave my right arm – the one arm that still obeys me. “I know.” I would have stopped there, but I keep going because Peggy would have said more, and she’s always right. “You’ve done more than enough. I’ll be fine.” “It’s pretty intuitive to operate,” Ellen says. She doesn’t look at me. “Just talk to it.” # The robot and I stare at each other. I look into the cameras, caricatures of eyes, and see nothing but a pair of distorted, diminished images of myself. I understand the aesthetics of its design, the efficient, functional skeleton softened by touches of cuteness and whimsy. Peggy and I once saw a show about caretaker robots for the elderly in Japan, and the show explained how the robots’ kawaii features were intended to entice old people into becoming emotionally invested in and attached to the lifeless algorithm-driven machines. I guess that’s me now. At sixty, with a stroke, I’m _old_ and an invalid. I need to be taken care of and fooled by a machine. “Wonderful,” I say. “I’m sure we’ll be such pals.” “Mr. Church,[...]

By Don Webb Read by John Mierau Discuss on our forums. An Escape Pod Original! All stories by Don Webb All stories read by John Mierau Rated 13 and up Talking to the Enemy By Don Webb We knew a little, but we knew the Free Machines knew more. We hoped our adversary, the Belatrin, knew less; but since they were such creatures of dream and nightmare even at the late parts of the War, we suspected they knew everything. The Peace Conference hadn’t happened in the first six months of our being here. Everyone talked about it. Breakthroughs were rumored everyday. The only hard facts are that we had grown more efficient at killing Belatrin and they us. The “peace planet” was named Mrs. Roger Fishbaum III. Roger Fishbaum had paid currency to name a star after his wife in the International Star Registry a thousand years before. The Siirians had a name for it that had too many clicks and whistles, the Free Machines a binary designation, and for all we knew the Belatrin used telepathy. The planet stank of vinegar and moldy bread. I always assumed that its atmosphere contained some needful compound for our enemies’ breathing, but maybe the Free Machines choose it to annoy us, or them. Siirian merchants made the most of our discomfort. They sold ineffective air shields that released some herbal concoction. I was buying one when I made my ironic remark about the peace talks. The merchant polished its carapace with two of its legs and whistled out a message that my implant made into, “Honored customer, do you think you will be the chief negotiator for the peace talks?” I set my translator for ironic mode, and said, “Most certainly. My lowly position as a Viscount of the Instrumentality qualifies me far better than the Dukes of Diplomacy.” “No doubt this is true my friend.” The implant registered no irony. His carapace had the oranges and whites of early middle age. He could have fought in the Human-Siirian wars, back when is all right to call them “Crabs” to their eyestalks. The high-ranking families of the bureaucracy had commanded legions seeking to kill him, while my family had huddled in the ghettos of Earth. His long claw, a good two meters, reached over and pinned the air shield to my shirt. “Wear it in good health, honored customer.” I strolled back to the Bureau, where others of the tribe of hereditary Bureaucrats busied themselves in meeting the latest proposal by the Free Machines. Since no human and no Belatrin could sit within two hundred yards of each other without permanent psychic damage to both parties, the Free Machines had built a “Peace Palace” where they would conduct negotiations to end the hundred year old war. Their fees were high, and it was our job to come up with some acceptable package of goods and services that wouldn’t wreck the economy of several planets. My boss Dame Patricia was joking that canned New Martian Champaign might do the trick, since it could be used to get the rust off. It was wartime. Jokes were stale. They had been stale for a hundred years. We were not stupid in the Bureau. We knew two things. Somewhere, higher ranking Bureaucrats – Dukes or Earls perhaps – were trying to make direct contact with the Belatrin. Everyone knew there had to be a way. After all they looked like us. Or at least in our part of space they had bodies and looked like us. The other thing we knew is that the Belatrin had a building just like ours on the other side of the planet, presumably filled with cost-cutting officials of some sort. It gave us great hope to believe that however different the souls of our enemies might be, they still looked for bargains. Everyone laughed his or her stale laugh at the stale joke. Dame Pat asked me, “What about you Sir Antele? Did your noontide walk inspire you to solve our dilemma?” “It solved only the wretched smell of this world. It did not give me the ybleenth of a solution.” “The what?” She asked. “What, what?” I asked “That word you said, yleebull? I don’t know it.” “Ybleenth.[...]

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