Tag: science fiction

prompt: Write a story that starts and ends in the same place.

available at Reedsy

In the time before the devouring horde, humanity, thinking themselves alone, stretched out among the stars. They made barren worlds habitable, and in generations turned them into paradises. There was no part of the galaxy they considered off-limits.

When the first unmistakable, non-human, artificial signal caught their attention, humanity celebrated. They were no longer alone. While humans were still trying to work out how to respond, They showed up.

Hundreds of thousands of ships, joined together into a traveling city the size of a moon, materialized in a system where humans populated three planets and eight moons. Instead of attempts to communicate, the city broke apart into its constituent ships.

Like a swarm, the ships descended on the planets and moons. Large, rectangular processor ships hung in the sky above the descender ships.

Smaller cubic ships, a kilometer long on each side, headed to the ground and stripped everything they found. Any lifeforms they encountered stood no chance, whether plant, fungus, or animal, megafauna or bacteria. It didn’t matter to the machines that landed, burrowed down half a kilometer into the crust, then returned to the  processor, leaving behind a square crater. The processor ships handled nearly a thousand descenders every second, converting more than six hundred billion kilograms of material into waste. Everything from the descenders they didn’t keep, came out the back of the processor as a fine, dry powder that circled in the upper atmosphere, blocking out the light of the local star.

That was just the first of hundreds of systems the devouring horde stripped bare. Humanity scrambled to fight back. Every ship they destroyed was replaced in a matter of days and did little to slow the advance of the horde. Knowing what sort of signals to look for, humanity found the traveling city to be the only source of the signals, which made it possible to track their movements as they moved ever closer to humanity’s cradle.

The fastest ship in all of the human fleets was the Bonny Marie, said to be able to open a warp space so rapidly, and reaching so far across the stars, as to make reality weep. A converted heavy cargo ship, most of her cargo space taken up with her massive warp engines, she wasn’t as sightly as her name would suggest. Still, she was the only ship to ever pull warp from within a mere  handful of kilometers from the event horizon of a black hole. She was also the only ship ever to make it into, and back out of, the horde’s city of connected ships.

Still, even with her lightning-fast strikes, any damage the Bonny Marie did to the horde was like trying to empty an ocean with a coffee mug. That didn’t stop her crew from trying, though. With over a hundred landers and two processors confirmed destroyed, they harassed the horde from system to system. It was when the horde was closing in on Sol that the crew decided they needed to do something drastic.

Despite most of her cargo area being filled with the most overpowered engines, the Bonny Marie had more space yet to give. In humanity’s darkest hour, every available centimeter of her space was filled with multi-gigaton, three-stage hydrogen bombs. To this day, no one knows where they came from or how many there were. Some say they carried nine, others say thirteen, others say fifteen. However, all reports agree that they were all twelve gigaton yield, installed without the shielding due to space constraints, and all attached to a single trigger for concurrent detonation.

The Bonny Marie was waiting for the horde when they phased into the Sol system near Mars. They said their goodbyes to each other and warped into the structure of the devouring horde. At the center of the conglomeration was a massive pile of ore dust.

The captain gave his orders, the pilot took aim, the ship’s engines shuddered, and the Bonny Marie rammed into the pile of ore, triggering the fusion bombs. The flash of the initial fireball was visible on Earth, the fine dust ore that was not vaporized turned into radioactive shrapnel. Tens of thousands of the horde ships were destroyed in the initial blast, with tens of thousands more rendered inoperable as a result of either the EMP emitted by the blast or by heat and radiation.

It was still too little, too late for Mars, Luna, and Earth, although the weakened horde was slowed, allowing the evacuation of those bodies to continue for many months. It was only after the horde had stripped those bodies and left them in a cloud of the dust of their upper crust that the real damage the nukes had done became obvious.

The new ships they churned out from the irradiated ore failed often, some not even making their first flight from the traveling city. When the horde rejoined the city, almost back to full strength and emitting megacuries of gamma and alpha radiation, they attempted to use their phase-space propulsion to travel to the next system.

 Instead, a ripple washed over the horde city at the speed of light, barely perceptible. Behind it, the ships it had passed over exploded violently. Their cores were vaporized and the remnants ranged in size from the finest dust to small pieces less than two centimeters in diameter. For the second time, a calamity of the horde was visible from Earth, or would have been if there had been anyone there to see it, and they could see through the dust that blotted out the sun.

The remaining humans, listening for the sounds of the horde transmissions, heard silence for the first time in nearly two decades. Earth was wiped bare, but humanity had survived and destroyed the horde, the remnants of which have slowly spread out into a faint ring around the planet.

All the survivors have joined together again, and now we find no other signals. It is time for humanity to build new homes, new paradises for our children’s children. Alone again, we will spread out among the stars in our new ships that use the phase drives we learned from analyzing the horde.

It is with the greatest of honor that I christen humanity’s new flagship, the Bonny Marie 2. May she lead us to the stars and our uncertain, but promising, future.

#

Speech by Admiral Marisol Cortez on the christening of the Bonny Marie 2, flagship of the Human Colonization Fleet.

prompt: Write about a mysterious guest who arrives at a party — but no one knows who they are.

available at Reedsy

A great deal can be learned about a person by who they surround themselves with. The crowds at their parties show what kind of person they aspire to be. Their funeral crowd shows what kind of person they were.

When a gathering of the latter sort turns into the former, well, that’s just good wake planning. Of course, it helped that the deceased was well-loved by the sort of people who could subsume their grief long enough to celebrate the life they’d shared. The intoxicants probably helped, too. Probably more than anything else, if judged solely by the rate at which they were consumed at the wake.

It was into this intoxicated haze of laughter and tears, mirth and grief, and longing and fond remembrance that the stranger inserted themself. There were people from various parts of the life of Professor Jackson “Doc J” Washington, PhD. Students and colleagues from the university where he taught philosophy and comparative religion met leaders and members of local churches, synagogues, mosques, temples, groves, and covens. Current members and former graduates of the half-dozen programs for disadvantaged youths he founded got the opportunity to meet his family and friends.

His modest house was far too small for such a gathering, so it was fittingly held at the newly named Jackson Washington Community Center in his neighborhood. In the spacious multi-use room, the stranger moved from group to group. In some cases, they stood and listened, gleaning what they could about Doc J’s life. Other times, they asked for stories that the speaker would consider exemplified the professor’s true nature.

The conversations swirled around the room, weaving an intricate tapestry of a long life, well-lived.

“I was in the South City Youth Sports League all through grade school, middle school, and high school. When I was trying to figure out what I was going to do after graduation, he asked what university I was going to. When I told him I probably wouldn’t be able to, he took the time to help me apply for scholarships and hired me in the League as a coach and mentor.”

The life of a fighter for the rights and dignities of others.

“…the time he brought an entire high school orchestra to the state house and had them perform on the house floor before the vote on cutting funding for extracurriculars.”

A man who went out of his way to help those less fortunate.

“…he showed up to the black-tie faculty dinner in sweats because he’d spent the entire day helping the family of one of the community center kids move out of the shelter into a new apartment. They didn’t know he was the one that paid the deposits to get the utilities turned on.”

A man who could see beyond his own preconceived notions and experience the viewpoint of others.

“…and after defending Aquinas, he turned around in the next debate and ripped every one of those arguments apart.”

The life of someone who took personal risks.

“…but the fact that he testified after the death threats was the key that got that slumlord locked up for reckless endangerment and criminal threat.”

The life of someone who found joy in teaching, even when not teaching.

“…a shot for every logical fallacy. We got so drunk before they were even halfway through the debate.”

There was a conversation that caught the stranger’s attention. They focused in on it, lest they miss anything.

“I know I’m not supposed to speak ill of the dead, but….”

“But what?”

“That bastard should be here. He’d turn this party up to eleven!” The speaker broke down into heaving sobs. “I miss him so fucking much!”

A man who was deeply missed.

The stranger moved away to watch interactions as people began to move between the groups. They watched an imam in a lively but friendly conversation with a young woman wearing a pride badge. In one part of the room, one of the professor’s former colleagues seemed to be giving advice to a young man from the community center, who seemed to hang on her every word.

The professor’s wife stood on one of the tables and clinked a spoon against her glass. “I would like to say something.”

The room grew quiet, and the stranger watched in anticipation.

“J used to call himself a ‘theistic atheist or atheistic theist.’ While that is just the sort of logical oxymoron he loved, he explained it as, ‘I don’t believe in a higher power because of any rational or logical reasoning, but from a combination of childhood indoctrination, societal pressure, and wishful thinking. In other words, I like to think there might be a god or gods.’” She laughed and wiped a tear from her face.

A man who valued intellectual honesty above all.

“While I don’t believe myself, if anyone deserves an eternal afterlife in some heaven or other, it’s J.” She raised her glass. “To J!”

The crowd responded in kind, repeating the toast, “To J!”

“The life of a man who was deeply loved,” the stranger said to themself.

The stranger stepped out of the room and walked through a door on the far side of the hallway that disappeared behind them. They stepped into a liminal space, an endless plane of grey with an omnidirectional grey light. They looked at the man standing in the space. “Tell me, Jackson Washington, what you think you deserve in your afterlife.”

Dr. J rubbed his chin. “That’s hard to say. Based on which criteria?”

“Your own.”

“Well, as a rational, thinking being, I know it should be whatever is best for the most people and does the least harm. As a selfish being, however, I would prefer the lack of suffering and presence of pleasure or joy.”

The stranger’s form changed, from a nondescript, short, slight person to that of a pulsing light. “In that case, I have a proposal.”

“What proposal is that?”

“While this is not, perhaps, the afterlife you envisioned, your entire intellect, personality, and sense of self, have been uploaded into one of our devices. We are offering you a virtual existence where you will continue to be, and in turn, you will be tasked to teach us your philosophies and religions.”

“I’m in a simulation?” he asked.

“You will be. This space is not a simulation, per se, but an evaluation space.” The stranger dimmed and brightened as it spoke.

“Who, then, are you?”

The stranger changed shape again and looked like one of the aliens known as “grey” in the UFO community. “We are from another world,” they said. “We don’t look like this, but this is what your brain perceives as ‘aliens from space’ so, that is the visualization I will use.”

“Wouldn’t it be better to show me your true self?”

The stranger morphed into indescribable colors and non-Euclidean shapes that Dr. J was certain would give him a headache, if he still had a physical head. He removed his glasses and realized that didn’t help — or hurt — his eyesight.

Depending on which way he turned or tilted his head, the stranger’s shape morphed and changed in ways that defied what he knew of physics. After a few moments of that, Dr. J chuckled. “Okay, maybe the little grey alien is better. At least then I know where to look when I’m talking to you.”

The stranger changed back. “Have you considered the offer? If you wish, we will turn you off and erase your data from this device. I, however, am hopeful that you will accept, because I believe that we can learn a lot from you before we attempt full contact with humanity.”

Dr. J thought for a moment. “You know what? I’ll say yes — for now. As long as I have your assurance that if I change my mind, you’ll let me go.”

“Certainly.”

“How long will it take us to reach your world?”

“We’re already there.” The alien stranger nodded as the endless plane turned into a park-like setting. “Being creatures that exist in five, rather than just four, dimensions, we can easily fold spacetime to simply step from one place and time to another.”

“That’s some impressive power.” Dr. J sat on the lavender grass-like ground covering. “How are using that power to effect change for the better?”

The stranger joined him on the ground. “Beginning to teach already? I’m ready.”

prompt: Write a story that solely consists of dialogue. (No dialogue tags, actions, or descriptions. Just pure dialogue!)

available at Reedsy

“They sent a juvie. A freshly molted breeder.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I’m sure. He even introduced himself as a male.”

“Hmm. He might be a breeder, but maybe they have male drones. Have you thought of that?”

“Well, no. I guess they could. But still….”

“What?”

“I mean, well, he’s all squishy. His carapace hasn’t hardened, and he molts it and grows a new one every day, sometimes twice or three times in a day.”

“Clothes. You’re talking about clothes. Did you even read the information packet?”

“I read it! I mean, sort of. … I skimmed through it … this morning.”

“Look here, in the packet, it says they put on clothes, coverings of cloth. It even says not to be alarmed if their coverings are changed multiple times in a single day.”

“Oh. But why?”

“Why? Because we’re supposed to have at least some idea of the ambassador we’re meant to work with.”

“No, I mean, why do they cover themselves with cloth?”

“I don’t know. I’ve been through the packet, but that part isn’t clear. I think it might be a religious thing.”

“They have religion?!”

“Why wouldn’t they?”

“I don’t know. I just thought that was an us thing. Besides, he’s a male. What would he need religion for?”

“Probably a drone, remember?”

“Yeah, I mean…. They’re just… weird, in a not good way.”

“Since you’ve seen him, tell me, what does he look like?”

“Ugh! Just, gross. I mean, a freshly molted drone or breeder is, you know, whatever, but he’s just disgusting.”

“You’re not explaining anything, and you’ve never seen a breeder, much less a freshly molted one.”

“Yes, I have. I used to work in the nursery with my clutch sisters.”

“I didn’t know that. Still, you haven’t described anything.”

“Okay. He’s got limbs for grasping and manipulating, and limbs for locomotion.”

“Yeah, so does everyone.”

“Separate. Limbs.”

“He can only grab things from one end and walk on the other? Or do they alternate?”

“No. I mean, imagine a grub. Now put it on end, with the head at the top. Then split the bottom third into two walking limbs and stick two grasping limbs on opposite sides of the thorax.”

“What about the other limbs?”

“That’s it.”

“Now you’re telling lies. The best circus performers can walk on three limbs…barely. It takes incredible strength and balance, but you’re saying they walk on just two.”

“All. The. Time.”

“You’re not kidding, are you?”

“I mean, I wish I was. I kept seeing him in my nightmare.”

“That bad, huh?”

“Yeah. Looking right at me with those two eyes.”

“Which two?”

“The only two he has!”

“Wait, four limbs, two eyes? Does he have a single antenna or something as well?”

“No antennae.”

“No…what in the name of the Great Mother?!”

“Well, I mean, I don’t think so, unless all the stuff on top of his head is millions of tiny antennae.”

“Ugh. Why did the Empress Mother agree to talks with these disgusting things? I mean, they can’t even emote without antennae.”

“I don’t know. I think they emote with their face.”

“What, like mandibles wide open in surprise or something?”

“No mandibles.”

“But how do they—”

“They have squishy faces that move around, and bits of bone behind soft, fleshy things around their mouth.”

“Bone?”

“I’m sure that’s what they are. I mean, he bared them at everyone he met. It’s like bits of their endoskeleton are sticking out inside their mouth.”

“You saw the inside of his mouth? How intimate! How did you stand being that close to him?”

“No, no, it’s not like that. With no mandibles to hide it, and with how big his mouth is, you can’t help but see inside when he talks.”

“Oof. Just stop. I think I’m going to be sick.”

“I mean, I almost lost my meal when I saw him yesterday, but that’s okay. I’ll stop talking about him.”

“Please do. I’m terrified of having to work with him now.”

“I mean, you could always ask for a transfer.”

“The Empress Mother would feed us both to the grubs.”

“Yeah. Especially since she’s been busy with her new breeders. I mean, she’s got thousands of soldiers in this clutch.”

“Along with twenty or thirty thousand drones.”

“Oh! There’s a new queen in the latest clutch!”

“You listen to too many unsubstantiated rumors.”

“Two of my clutch sisters still work in the nursery. They said the queen grub is twice as fat as any of the others. They had to move her away from the soldier and drone grubs, since she’s so fat she can’t move or even eat without help.”

“Aww, she sounds so cute!”

“Did you want to see a picture?”

“How did you get—?”

“Clutch sisters in the nursery. Take a look.”

“Oh, Great Mother, she’s so cute I can’t stand it.”

“Look, look! You can already see all twelve eyes.”

“I think I may faint from how adorable she is.”

“Isn’t she just, though?”

“Quick, put it away, I hear someone coming.”

“Done.”

“Wait, is that…?”

“Oh, Mother, it is. Act like you didn’t see him.”

“Too late. What is he doing?”

“He’s showing his mouth bones and wagging a grasping limb at us.”

“Doing what?”

“He calls it waving. Just do it back.”

“He’s showing more of his mouth bones. Do I have to keep looking at him?”

“I think we’re okay to look away now. It seems like he’s in a hurry to go somewhere.”

“Thank the Great Mother! It looks like he’s going to fall over at any second. It’s giving me vertigo.”

“Now you see what I mean by weird, and not in a good way?”

“I do. That’s disturbing. Huh, do you smell that?”

“Fruit, but I’m not sure what kind. I mean, mixed fruit for soldier meals, maybe?”

“Maybe, but they wouldn’t be carrying it anywhere near here.”

“Don’t look up. He’s coming back.”

“Too late. He’s wagging his limb again. What is he carrying?”

“I mean, looks strange, but smells sweet.”

“Howdy, ladies! I’m Steve, the new ambassador from Earth. Y’all are pretty. You remind me of my red-knee —. I heard y’all like fruit, and want you to have these — from the tree I brought with me.”

“I… uh, thank you.”

“Got to run. See you ladies tomorrow morning!”

“Did you understand what he said?”

“With that accent? Not even close. I mean, where’s the translator?”

“There were a couple words I didn’t catch. He called us pretty, said we look like some red-kneed something or other, and gave us these fruits he grows on a tree that he brought with him.”

“I can’t help it, I have to try this. I mean, it’s so….”

“Wow, this is lovely. You know, even though he looks a little, disgusting, I think I could get used to this.”

“I mean, maybe he’s not that disgusting after all.”

prompt: Write a story about someone confronting their worst nightmare.

available at Reedsy

The katakat law officer, like others of her kind, stood just over four feet tall, fine-boned and slender. Covered as they were in green and yellow feathers with a red beak and large eyes set to either side of their head, humans tended to call them ‘parakeets’, ‘keets’ for short.

Unlike their nickname sakes, however, katakats had arms ending in hands with disturbingly long fingers. The officer’s fingers at that moment twirled a set of dull grey cuffs. While she puffed up her chest to appear in control of the situation, those fingers trembled and the feathers on her neck stood out in alarm.

She was to arrest a human. One of those dangerous apes from a remote arm of the galaxy. This was the day she dreaded might come and hoped to never have to live to see. She’d never met one of them, but she knew they were larger, heavier boned, densely muscled creatures with predatory eyes and diet. The stories she never hoped to verify terrified her.

Living up to their reputation as blood-thirsty savages, this one had claimed an emergency and docked at the station in a ship bristling with weapons. Carried within, the ship held a quantity of explosives that, if set off, would vaporize the ship and a huge portion of the station with it.

The pilot stood next to his vehicle. He was grimy, with oil and grease stains on his jumpsuit, boots, hands, and face. Slung across his shoulder was an emergency oxygen tank, now depleted as evidenced by the open valve and no sound of gas escaping the mask that hung from his neck. Whether it was a real emergency or manufactured to gain access to the station would be determined by the investigators.

“Pilot Silas Roberts,” she said, challenging the beast of a man in front of her, “I am placing you under arrest for the transport of dangerous goods to a civilian station.”

“I figured as much,” he said. He turned his back to her and put his hands behind his back. “I won’t fight it. I don’t bite … unless you ask nicely.”

The cuffs barely closed around the large wrists of the man. Her sensitive fingers felt the rough texture of his hands, as though humans had built-in work gloves. The solidity and weight of his limbs caught her full attention. She hoped the cuffs would hold. Maybe there was something sturdier in the station’s garrison.

“Ma’am,” he said, “if you wouldn’t mind, what’s your name?”

“Officer Takara,” she said. “Follow the yellow lights on the floor. We’re going to the garrison. Don’t try anything. I’m armed and not afraid to use it.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Silas said. “You’re in charge here.”

As they walked, Takara asked, “I know humans love war, but who are you fighting that you need all those weapons and explosives?”

Silas laughed. “Ain’t fighting nothing but asteroids. I’m a buster for a mining operation.”

“But all those weapons—”

“Wait,” he cut her off, “I’ll explain, after you. What did you mean that humans ‘love war?’”

The tone of his voice raised the feathers on her face and neck, sending a shiver of fear down her spine and raising the feathers on the way down. Her hand tightened on the grip of her stunner, and she took an involuntary step back from him.

Silas stopped and bowed his head. “I apologize for my tone, Officer Takara. I just… I get fed up with hearing about how dangerous and scary humans are. We’re all just people trying to make our way.”

Takara regained her composure and got them moving again. “I know about humans,” she said, “well, I mean, I hear stories.”

“The best stories can tell the worst lies, ma’am.” Silas shook his head. “I’m not saying there’s no dangerous humans, because there are. Plenty that I wouldn’t want to face alone. But isn’t it the same for everyone?”

“The same how?”

“I mean, aren’t there dangerous ’keets out there too? Like that weird cult that was doing medical experiments on kids?” He sighed. “I’d like to sic some of those dangerous humans on ’em.”

“Fine. I will concede that there are dangerous persons of all species.” She relaxed the grip on her stunner. The human continued to cooperate and not make any threatening gestures. “That still doesn’t explain the explosives and weapons.”

“Right,” he said. “What do you know about asteroid mining?”

“Not much.”

“Well, I’m a buster. Our job is break apart large, metallic asteroids into smaller pieces that can be managed by a processor ship.

“We do that by drilling holes in the asteroid, planting explosives, getting the hell outta the way and blowing it up. Then we fly around the expanding cloud of debris and push it towards the processor. The guns are for breaking the chunks that are still too big, and to protect our ass from any rogue pieces that wanna take a bite outta the ship.”

“I see. It seems….” She stopped herself before she said something else that might annoy or anger the human.

“Dangerous?” he asked. “It is, but that’s why it pays so good.”

She had stopped herself from saying it was inefficient but let him believe that she meant dangerous. As they neared the garrison, the noise of a fight reached their ears and the yellow line on the floor turned red. The sounds of multiple stunners discharging in the garrison put her on high alert, her stunner drawn and aimed at the garrison doors on instinct.

One of the doors buckled and flew open into the hallway, opposite to the direction it was meant to open. Two katakats, brandishing stunners and wearing police armor over civilian clothes stepped into the hallway. Seeing Takara, they swung their stunners towards her even as she fired both of her charges at them. The armor made it ineffective, but Takara wasn’t wearing any.

Silas stepped in front of her and with a jerk of his arms snapped the cuffs off. “Stay behind me!” He ran toward the armed duo, not even flinching at the four stun shots they unloaded on him.

He punched one in the beak, cracking it and sending his head snapping to the side, knocking him out cold. He turned toward the second who had raised another stunner and shot Takara.

The stunned officer dropped to the deck hard. Silas reached out and grabbed the second katakat and pulled so hard it dislocated the katakat’s shoulder, making him drop the stunner.

As officers in uniform swarmed into the hall to take the two back into custody, Silas returned to Takara and knelt beside her. “Officer Takara, are you hurt?”

“Can’t move,” she said. “Should wear off soon.”

“Is it okay if I carry you into the garrison?”

“Fine.”

Silas lifted her as if she weighed nothing. Takara marveled at how gentle he was, especially given the scene she’d just witnessed. “The cuffs.”

“Sorry, but I thought it more important to stop dangerous people,” Silas said. “I can buy you a new pair.”

“No. You could’ve just … any time … and yet you ….”

He did that strange thing humans did with their soft faces they call a smile. “I told you, you’re in charge, and I’m willing to pay whatever fines. I just needed a place to dock since I was losing my oxygen.”

“I think I believe you,” she said. “I’ll put in a word with the investigators.”

“Thank you, Officer Takara. I have the busted valve in my pocket anyway, since I need to find a replacement.” He laid her gently on the first clear table he saw. “Somebody help! She was hit with a stunner.”

Other officers came around to administer first aid but waited until he had stepped well clear of her. Takara huffed. “He doesn’t bite, you know. Unless you ask nicely.”

prompt: A court or disciplinary hearing is taking place — but the person accused does not know what they’re apologizing for.

available at Reedsy

“Allow me to make the facts of the case clear.” The newly elected prosecutor, Hiratha of clan Ororos, stood at her designated spot, addressing the panel of judges. Like her, they were covered in a fine layer of fur, wearing stylish sashes. Hiratha extended one of her six upper tentacles, spreading the six small, grasper tentacles at the end, pointing in the manner of her people at the dock.

Maxwell sat in a cage in the dock. He was meant to be standing, but it wasn’t built for someone as tall as him. He was the only human in the chamber, surrounded by the fluffy oraxans. Max was made uncomfortable by the confines of the dock, the chilly temperature of the room, and the prospect of being found a criminal without being told what he was suspected of.

Hiratha swayed all six of her upper tentacles. “Maxwell of clan Martinez, did the Department of Genetics provide you with a suitable match?”

“Who … what?!” Max looked at Hiratha, smaller than her campaign ads made her seem, trying to determine if this was all an elaborate prank or she was serious and insane.

“Answer the question.” Hiratha’s tentacles stiffened at her sides, pointing straight down. “Did the Department of Genetics provide you with a suitable match?”

Max wanted to stand, but the cage was too small. “I don’t understand what you are asking.”

Hiratha extended a tentacle behind herself without looking and picked up the sheet of processed cellulose on the table behind her. She held it out where it could be seen by the judges and the accused. “Did you receive this notice of genetic suitability?”

Max looked at the paper she held. “Yes, but—”

“A simple yes or no will suffice.” She put the paper back on the desk behind her.

“But I’m—”

“Hold your comments while I am questioning you.” Hiratha gestured at the judges. “Please forgive me, honorable judges, but his continued outbursts point to his disrespect and disdain for cultural norms.”

Max groaned. This was ridiculous.

“Maxwell of clan Martinez—”

“My name is Maxwell Luis Martinez-Orwell,” Max cut her off. “No clans, just family names. But please, just call me Max.”

A shudder ran down all Hiratha’s tentacles, the oraxan equivalent of a sigh. “Very well. Max, when did you become of citizen of the Slimark Republic of Planets?”

“Day 382 of period 854. It was my seventeenth birthday in Earth years, and I’m thirty-four now.”

“You have had more than nine periods since then.” Hiratha waved her tentacles in an inquisitive gesture that Max was certain was acting and not sincere. “Would you consider nine periods a reasonable amount of time to acclimate to a culture and its laws? That is, after passing the citizenship tests and proving your knowledge of that culture and those laws, is nine periods long enough to acclimate?”

“I grew up here,” he said. “I was born here, since my folks were ambassadors.”

“Answer the question, Maxwell Luis Martinez-Orwell. Is nine periods long enough to acclimate?”

“Sure. I guess.” Max sighed.

“When did you learn about reproduction — specifically oraxan reproductive cycles and customs?” she asked.

“I guess I was still a young kid,” he said. “I was a bit precocious in my curiosity about where babies come from, whether it was humans, puppies, or oraxans.”

“So that was before you became a citizen?”

“Yes.” Max leaned against the side of the cage. “Where are you going with this?”

“I’m asking the questions here.” She snapped her tentacles as his teachers had done, creating the sound of six whips simultaneously cracking.

Max sat up straight and folded his hands in his lap. He chuckled at himself internally for becoming a schoolboy at the sound.

“What,” she asked, “happens during the thirteen days beginning on day 211 of the period?”

“Life festival,” Max answered.

“And what does the Festival of Life celebrate?”

“When oraxans enter their fertile cycle.” Max leaned back. “This is youngling school stuff.”

“Exactly.” Hiratha paused a moment before continuing. “Do you know what the Department of Genetics does?”

“I guess they find suitable matches for reproduction?” Max cocked his head. “I know oraxans don’t do the whole family for love thing.”

“Your guess is good, but it goes further. The Department of Genetics finds the matches in a given geographical area with the most diverse genetics; those who are most dissimilar and most distantly related.” She extended a tentacle with spread graspers toward him. “Do you know why they do that?”

“Oh, I remember this from school,” he said. “During the era of the First Republic, people didn’t travel very far, and the unmanaged fertility cycles led to in-breeding and the propagation of genetic illnesses.”

“Maxwell Luis Martinez-Orwell, you have admitted to knowing oraxan culture, the reasons for the Festival of Life, and the importance of the work of the Department of Genetics. Despite knowing all that, though, you failed to follow the instructions given to you for the most recent Festival of Life. I hereby request that the judges find you culpable and award punitive damages in the amount of 190,000 regals.” Hiratha whipped her tentacles again and moved behind the table to sit.

The lead judge said, “The accused may now speak on their own behalf.”

Max heaved a sigh. “Okay, first of all, I’m not a suitable genetic match for anyone on this planet. In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m human, not oraxan, and the other humans in the embassy are all related to me.”

He gestured toward the prosecutor’s table where the decree still sat. “Yeah, I got that. I figured it had to be a clerical error. One thing the Republic is very good at is bureaucracy. I figured it would get straightened around, no problem, once they figured out they matched a human for breeding.”

Max looked around the chamber. “I still don’t know what law I’ve been charged with breaking, and I have no representation, nor was I asked if I wanted any. I can afford an attorney, so please, can we put this trial on hold long enough that I can hire one?”

When no answer was forthcoming, he continued. “Look, I’m not sure what the crime is, but the guilty party is the Department of Genetics, or whoever in that department made the error. Why the prosecutor is coming after me so hard makes no sense.”

One of the judge panel members spoke up. “This is not a criminal court, this is a civil matter, and there is no prosecutor here, just the aggrieved, and you, the accused.”

Max closed his eyes and shook his head. “Wait, wait wait wait. I got bundled into a van, stashed in a cell, then locked into a literal cage in the courtroom for a civil case?!” He took a deep breath and did his best not to scream.

“Okay, if this is civil court, why all that and why am I locked in this cage?” he asked.

“This is standard procedure for any case which could lead to the aggrieved being injured by the accused or vice versa.” The lead judge swayed his tentacles in an apologetic manner. “Seeing that this case does not include any sort of violence, you may exit the protective chamber, assuming you and the aggrieved both promise not to injure each other?”

“Of course, your honors,” Max said.

Hiratha agreed with a gesture and the door to the cage opened.

“May I speak directly to the prosec—the aggrieved?” he asked the judges after exiting the cage and stretching.

“You may speak to and question the aggrieved. This is your time to do so.”

“Hiratha of clan Ororos, can you admit this isn’t about me? You’ve never seen me before today. It’s not even about the fact I didn’t show up to meet you. You’re upset that you missed a chance to breed, because the Department of Genetics assigned you to someone that shouldn’t even be in consideration due to being a different species.” Max let his shoulders droop and softened his gaze.

“I’m very sorry you missed out on a chance to reproduce this cycle. You seem like a driven woman … uh, oraxan, and there’s bound to be a good choice for you on the next go-round. I wish you all the luck in that, and if you choose to bring a case against the Department of Genetics, I will back you all the way. What they did by matching you with me wasn’t right at all.”

Hiratha pulled her tentacles in tight. “When you didn’t show up at the appointed time to the coupling center, I thought maybe my match had seen me and run away. I know I’m not the most attractive. It wasn’t until I dug into it that I found out I’d been matched to the only human citizen of the Republic in thirty light years distance.”

“But you still chose to take me to court, to hold someone accountable for your hurt.” Max smiled at her with a sad smile. “I understand. You’re a prosecutor, so that’s what you know. We have a saying, ‘When all you have is a hammer, every problem looks like a nail.’ You just did what you know how to do.”

He straightened up. “That said, I can now see that I’ve caused you pain, though it was never my intention. Hiratha, I beg your forgiveness for my insensitivity. I’m not sure how money will heal the hurt, but 190,000 regals is far more than I make in an entire period.”

Max looked at Hiratha. “If it is amenable to you, I would like to offer my sincerest apologies in the form of a dinner at my home. Any human or oraxan dish you would like, to be prepared and served by me, using the skills I’ve acquired working in the embassy kitchen.”

The judges conferred for a moment, before the lead judge said, “We have a counteroffer of a meal. As the harm inflicted was not physical in nature, and was not intentional, we are reluctant to hold the accused to account. Will the aggrieved accept the counteroffer?”

Hiratha stood and walked to the front of the table. “I—I will … on the condition that Max agrees to testify when I charge the Department of Genetics with malpractice and dereliction of duty.”

“I will, Hiratha. I’ll help you hammer that particular nail.”

prompt: Start or end your story with two friends who become enemies/rivals, or vice versa.

available at Reedsy

Saying that the war was going poorly would be a massive understatement. If one were to say that the war was a horrifying shit-show, they would be closer to the mark, but still underselling it. We were losing, simple as that.

My entire shake, except me, were killed as soon as our dropship made landfall and opened to deploy. Three branches of eighteen warriors each gone in an instant. I was still in shock, covered in the purple slick of my fellows’ blood and bits of destroyed armor when they came into the dropship and captured me.

They were efficient in their movements, disarming and securing me before I could gather myself enough to fight back. Beneath the shock, shame began to build. This wasn’t my first battle, but I froze like a fresh recruit. Me, a decorated warrior, officer, and veteran. I thought I’d been through everything in battle that could happen. I’d just never seen such devastation in less than time than a single breath.

I spoke their language a little bit. It was expected of an officer like myself. It turned out that at least half the enemy shake spoke my language. We would never allow that, as the threat of enemy propaganda grows exponentially with every new possible target. At least, that’s what our military doctrine said.

With half their troops as possible targets, though, our steady propaganda barrage should’ve turned them all if that was true. That realization made me wonder what else we had wrong. If we could correct our mistaken assumptions, we could turn the war around.

These creatures were like nothing we’d ever fought. They wore armor on their heads and torsos, but left their limbs exposed. Of course, hitting a limb would injure them, but they could often still fight.

At the same time, their weaponry, though crude, smashed through our armor, and even punctured the hulls of our dropships. If that wasn’t bad enough, they had hyper-maneuverable flying craft that could attack our dropships in the atmosphere and hit them with chemical explosives.

After securing all four of my graspers with self-locking, polymer bands, they loaded me into a ground vehicle. With no viewports in the section of the vehicle I was in, it was a disorienting, bumpy ride for what seemed like an entire day with three of the infant-skinned creatures guarding me.

I was unloaded at a prison. At least these creatures had the same sort of ideas about a prison as we did; high walls, guard towers, and I guessed the strands of wire coiled along the top were their equivalent of our stun beams that kept prisoners in.

That’s when I met him. His skin was a deep brown, and he had some lines around his eyes. Maybe they just don’t come into their adult skin until later in life. If that’s the case, though, then we’re losing a war against children.

He cut the polymer bands off my limbs and offered his grasper. “I’m Captain Jerome Morse, but you can just call me J,” he said.

I looked at the grasper, unsure what to do. I extended one of my graspers the same way and said, “Grisshk ix Pikshis, Commander of the Red-Sky-Over-Green-Water Shake … or at least I used to be.”

He grabbed my grasper in his own and shook it up and down a couple times. “Welcome, Commander. If you don’t mind, I’ll have one of my troops take you to the medics to get checked out, then off to the showers to clean up.”

The creature that checked my health knew enough about our anatomy to pick out that my fourth heart-segment had a murmur in the second chamber. I’d had that since hatching. It wasn’t a threat to my health, but I’d had actual doctors miss it in the past.

After washing the blood of my compatriots off, I was given a drab outfit to wear. My jailers had whisked away my uniform and armor.

Captain Morse joined me after that in a sitting lounge my cell shared with several others. It didn’t feel nearly as much like prison as I expected. “I suspect the accommodations are due to my rank?”

“Well, there are perks to being an officer, yes,” Morse said, “but the enlisted have all the same amenities. The only difference is that the officer’s cells are mostly empty.”

“Not surprising.” I sat in one of the available seats and took in the room around me. There was a way to escape, I just needed to find it.

“We sent a message to your people, to let them know you’re alive and well. We also put your soldiers on a drone ship with instructions on where to pick them up so they can be returned home for interment.” He leaned on the armrest of the seat he occupied. “I don’t know long it will be before we’re sure that messages are getting through, but once we are, we’ll allow you to send recorded messages home to your family.”

“Heavily redacted, I suppose,” I said.

“If we think you’re trying to sneak information out, yes.” He sat up straight and leaned forward. “Look, Commander. I don’t know you, and I don’t trust you yet, but that’s no reason for me to be a dick.”

“Trust?” I asked. “You speak of trust with an enemy?”

“I do,” he said. “Trust is earned, regardless of allegiance or flag. I will do my best to earn your trust, and I hope you’ll do the same.”

“By telling you about our military disposition and plan, I suppose?”

He laughed. “Hardly. If M.I. thought you had valuable intel, you wouldn’t be here.” He stood and stretched. “I’ll let you get settled in. Don’t try too hard to escape, I’d hate to see you hurt yourself on your first day.”

I tried to escape. That was my first of dozens of attempts, none of which got me far, and most of which went unnoticed — or at least unmentioned — by the guards and Captain Morse.

He came in every day, and even though I could feel his animosity, he did his best to be professional and not let it show. We settled into a routine after a few day cycles: the latest news on the war from my people, then from his, a meal, record a message to send home and play any messages received, then talk about everything and nothing.

“It’s all propaganda, you know,” I said.

“What is?” he asked.

“The news about the war. That’s why my people say we’re winning, your people say you’re winning.”

Instead of disagreeing or arguing about it, he turned the news of his own people back on. Rather than talking about the state of the war, they were covering protests against the government, along with government officials trying to mollify the crowds. Not the sort of thing a state propaganda machine would report so openly on.

After that day, I ignored the propaganda from my world, and we spent more time watching news and entertainment from J’s world. It gave me more insight into these creatures. They still looked weird with their baby skin and missing arms, but they were just people like us.

We discovered that certain fruits of this world were intoxicating to me. There were some days that we would close out with intoxicating drinks, his some sort of poison, mine an orange or yellow fruit juice.

The war was getting closer to my home world with every passing day. One day, J came in and sat down with a serious look on his face. It was still early in the day, but he broke out the intoxicants and poured us both drinks.

“What’s on your mind, J?” I asked.

“Good news and bad news,” he said.

“My home world has fallen, and the war is over,” I guessed. “But that’s not bad news for you, I’d think.”

“Well, G, it actually is, because it means you’re going home. No more escape attempts, although the one with the cleaning cart was enjoyable.” He poured us both another drink. “Here’s to hoping to see you again under better circumstances.”

“You say that as if I’m leaving right away.”

He nodded. “The property sergeant is getting your uniform and armor packed up, and we’ve converted one of your dropships into a shuttle that will take you all back to your transport ship in orbit.”

“We have a transport ship in orbit?”

“Yeah, ever since they surrendered last month,” he said. “About the same time your escape attempts became more a matter of habit than real attempts to get away. I get the feeling that you might enjoy my company.”

“I might, J, I might. How long will we have to vacate our home world?” I asked.

“What?” he asked. “What are you talking about?”

“You’ve won. Will you not take over our worlds?”

The look of confusion on his face was clear. “No. What? We don’t do that. If anything, we’ll help you rebuild and make sure you’re not left in a position where your only option is to start another war.”

Originally written for HFY, then tied to prompt: Write about an encounter with someone new to you who changed your life forever.

Not all who wander are lost, but I am. The thought echoed through my mind like a mantra, telling myself over and over again how completely fucked I was. Lost in every sense of the word. I didn’t know where I was on the planet geographically, which planet I was on or even if I was still in the Milky Way galaxy. My emotions were a jumbled, indecipherable mess made all the worse by the realization that I was likely stuck here for a long time. I’d lost my cell phone and purse, meaning I was flat broke, as if this planet would even accept Visa or MasterCard.

The city around me was large and bustling, filled with alien creatures of all descriptions. I couldn’t understand a word anyone said in any of the dozens of languages I heard, and the five or possibly six different writing systems I saw displayed were just as foreign to me.

At first, I’d thought maybe I was in the middle of some sort of massive cosplay gathering, until I realized that the strange creatures were not humans in costumes. This was a poor situation for first contact, and there had to be someone more qualified for it than I.

I still kept wandering, hoping to overhear some English — or anything that sounded human. There was a small part of my mind that kept telling me I would survive this, that I’m the final girl. Not that it felt like a horror movie, more like a fever dream.

What little I could remember of getting here was broken, distorted, vague. I had followed the girl in the android cosplay out the back door of the club. It was almost disturbing how much her skin looked artificial. She hadn’t stayed longer than it took for me to ask where she was going to or coming from in her cosplay.

With the way she bolted out, I thought I’d insulted her somehow. I followed her out the door to the alley to apologize. She turned and saw me and just said, “No.” Then it felt like I was run over by a train, and I woke up in a park or public garden of some sort, dressed in this tunic gown I wouldn’t be caught dead in back home.

I have no way of determining how long I was out. Along with my purse and everything in it, all my clothes, and my shoes, I was missing all my jewelry, including my watch.

Regardless, I was parched. I heard the sound of running water and followed it around the corner of a building to a fountain. I wouldn’t normally deign to drink from a public decorative fountain in the middle of a city, but thirst won out.

I tried to be casual about it, sitting on the edge of the fountain, dipping a hand in when I wasn’t being watched. After the first couple single handfuls of water, I decided to go for it. I cupped both hands together and drank three of the double-handfuls without care about who might see me.

As I sat for a while longer, I realized my bare feet ached. With the advent of hydration, I began to feel the pangs of hunger. I wondered if there was anything here I could even eat.

A scent not dissimilar to fry-bread caught my attention. I followed it to a lane with food vendors on both sides of the uncannily smooth road. A few customers lined up in queues, but it seemed like I had either missed or beat the rush. When some of the customers began to be served and sat at the empty benches in the road, I realized I had beat the rush.

It wasn’t difficult to locate the trash receptacles, but I wasn’t ready to go picking trash to eat. While I tried not to stare, I watched the creatures that ate. One of them left their mess on the bench.

I sat where they had been and looked at the trash. There was a half-eaten something, with a texture between gelatin and mashed potatoes. It smelled like boiled cabbage and some sort of spice. I took a tentative taste.

The flavor was how I imagined rotten cabbage, not fermented like kraut or kimchi, but rotten, together with enough black pepper and fake cinnamon to choke a goat. It made me gag but I managed to swallow it, but one tiny bite was all I could handle.

I picked up the slob’s trash to take it to the waste bin and there was a small device left under it on the bench. Old habits die hard, and I picked up the device and began scanning the crowd for the short, orange, beetle-like creature that had left it.

Not seeing them anywhere, I dropped the trash into the receptacle and examined the device. It was a disk, about the size of a quarter, maybe three times as thick, and one side felt sticky. The odd thing about it was that it would stick to my skin, but not to the gown I wore.

I stuck it to my arm, under the sleeve, to keep it safe. Whether the creature that left it would come back to look for it or not, it seemed important.

The smell of something vaguely bread-like frying caught my attention again. I followed it through the various stalls to where a deep pan of boiling oil was being put through its paces.

The creature that was cooking had at least eight tentacles going every which way, handling multiple tasks at once like a cartoon octopus. One tentacle plucked small, green, puckered fruits from a bush and dropped them in the oil. Another wielded a strainer ladle, fishing out the crispy, plump, brown results of frying the fruits.

They looked a bit like large donut holes, even though the raw fruits were unappetizing. The wind shifted and the smell hit me hard. The smell of fried bread and sugar was overwhelming.

I watched as the creature served dozens of customers. The variety of creatures that lined up for what I guessed was a sweet treat was mind-boggling.

There was one that looked like a cross between a turtle and bird that wore a tunic gown that looked very similar to the one I wore. They also had one of those devices, stuck to their beak. They got two of the treats and swallowed them down whole as they walked away.

I must’ve been too obvious in my watching of the vendor. It put three of the treats in a small bag and moved faster than I could track to be standing next to me. It held out the offering and made chirping noises at me.

I took the bag and said, “Thank you. I—I’ll help you out to pay it back.”

It chirped something else and was back behind the fryer before I knew it. The closest I could describe the fried treats would be a sweet mushroom, with a crunchy skin like a super thin chicharron.

When I finished the surprisingly filling meal, I joined the creature behind the fryer. I’d been watching long enough to know that despite all the tentacles, some tasks required time away from the main task of cooking and serving.

I separated the bags and opened them up, making lines of opened bags on the counter behind as the creature had. When the side of the bush closest to the creature was bare, I rotated it to keep the fruit in reach.

Whenever I saw one of the creature’s bags left empty on a bench or the ground, I ran out, picked it up, and dropped it into a bin. At one point, the creature pointed at a canister, then at the bush.

I picked up the canister and felt the liquid inside slosh around. As I brought the canister closer, the creature pointed at the bush.

I figured it wanted me to water the bush, but just to be certain, I began slowly. It came as a surprise when one of its tentacles took a soft grasp of my wrist and turned the canister over to dump the entire contents on the bush.

The bush began to rustle, and new fruits sprouted on the bush in seconds, growing at a rate that would make them mature in a few hours at most. The crowds died down, and the lane became still and silent as the food stalls shut down.

My feet ached and I felt tired after rushing about. I sat on the nearest bench, then lay down. Sleep was not far behind.

The cold of night woke me. I was stiff from sleeping on the bench, but felt otherwise energized, though thirsty. I walked through the silent, dark city back to the fountain and drank my fill.

That’s when I saw her again, the girl in the android cosplay. Or was she a real android? She stood stock still, watching me.

I walked toward her and stopped a few feet away. She looked at my face as though she was looking for something.

“I didn’t mean to insult you last night,” I said, “if it was you at the Hap ’n’ Stan’s bar.”

She raised her arm, and the forearm opened up. Either a hyper-advanced prosthetic or she was a real android.

She lifted one of the round devices out of the space in her arm and showed it to me. I took the one off my arm and showed it to her. She mimed putting it on her temple, so I did the same.

“Very good. You’re doing well,” she said, then walked away.

At least, I was sure that was what she said, even though the sounds she made all sounded like variations on the word no. I sat back down on the edge of the fountain and wondered what I could do to stay warm until morning.

Three of the beetle-like creatures came around the corner, wearing official-looking clothing. They stopped in front of me. “What is your business here at this hour?” one of them asked. I was surprised that I could understand the word behind the mandible clicks and purrs that made up their speech.

“No business, just trying to stay warm until morning, then trying to figure out how to get out of here.”

One of the beetles extended a limb with a pincer-like grasper. “If you would follow us, we can show you where to find accommodations.”

“I don’t have any money,” I said. “Is it a shelter or something?”

All three looked at me as though I’d grown another head. “Yes,” the one with the still-extended limb said, “we’ll show you where to find shelter.”

I figured something had been lost in translation, so I gave up and followed them. I wouldn’t have guessed that the building they led me to was a shelter, or hotel even.

They led me to a wall that looked like maps of the building’s many floors, with some rooms in orange, and most in blue. The beetle explained that each map corresponded to a floor, and the rooms marked in orange were available.

When I reiterated that I had no money, the beetle just ignored me and continued on. By selecting a room, it would be locked to my DNA for the night and only I could open the door.

I picked what I guessed was the lowest available floor and touched the map at a room that looked close to the elevator, if that’s what it was. I studied the symbol for the floor, and the beetle led me to what looked like an elevator without the niceties like walls or doors. It was a platform directly under a hole in each of the floors above.

There was a control panel that rose up, with all the symbols from the map on it. I selected the one that matched the floor I’d chosen, and we were whisked up at breakneck speed, while I didn’t feel so much as a whisper of movement.

I lost count of floors somewhere around thirty-four, but we finally came to a stop. The beetle walked me down the hall to a wall with the room symbol on it. He motioned me to the wall.

I stepped closer, and the wall opened to reveal a room on the other side with a soft, mattress-like floor. I was too tired to care and lay down on the floor to sleep.

That was the first day of my first month on what I learned was called Tukraz … at least as close as I can pronounce it. I also learned to whistle the name of the fried fruit vendor, but I also call her Octavia as it seems fitting.

I’ve gotten over worrying about money, as the concept doesn’t exist here, or in the coalition formed by all these different species. Octavia and the other vendors cook because they like to.

I’ve been working with one of the beetles, Kikrizik, at his shop where he makes clothes. I’ve shared designs for Earth clothes, and he’s converted them for other species. Thanks to him, I’m learning how to sew and how to read Tukra common.

I say my first month because the android visited me again last night. She said I was here to test how well humans could adapt to the coalition. Given that my translator was taken before I woke, and I didn’t know what to do with the one the agent left behind, she said I passed with flying colors. We’re adaptable, after all, and that’s a big part of what makes a species “fit” for inclusion.

Last night, she offered to take me back home, which I have learned is “only” eighteen-thousand light-years away. Just a short warp translation to get there.

My initial reaction was, “Yes! Let’s go!” The second reaction, less than a second later, though, was, “Can we wait a bit?”

She looked at me as if calculating something. “How long would you like to wait?”

I thought about it. So far, I’d seen this city, but not much else. “Is there a way I can contact you?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said, removing another little disk device from her forearm. “You have represented humans well, and there will be more brought for evaluation before the coalition decides to uplift or not. Is there something you wish to accomplish?”

“I haven’t seen much of Tukraz. I think I’d like to wander a bit and see more.” I smiled at her and tied my new shoes Kikrizik made for me. “I’ll contact you when I’m ready to go home.”

prompt: Write a story inspired by the saying “Revenge is a dish best served cold.”

available at Reedsy

The stranger sat under a gelfim tree, shielded from the patchy rain and harsh sunlight, enjoying a mixed berry shave ice. Outside the gelfim’s shade, rising heat from the baked ground evaporated the rainwater as fast as it hit, turning the park into a giant sauna.

Those brave souls that ventured into the chaotic summer weather didn’t spare more than a glance at the stranger. It was obvious she didn’t belong here, and they didn’t want to catch her attention. For some it was fear, but most simply had no desire to be begged for a few credits by yet another war veteran from another world.

The stranger watched those that ignored her. From a distance, they seemed almost normal. She found it amusing how many of them stopped at the small pushcart for a shave ice. Something that, like her, came from another world. Unlike her, though, it had been readily adopted and assimilated as local.

One of the locals crossed the park, headed straight for where the stranger sat under the gelfim. The local’s antennae twitched nervously on the sides of her face, her ear slits open wide. She kept her head on a swivel as she approached, watching for what the stranger couldn’t guess. With a four-digit hand, she held out a bottle of water for the stranger.

“It’s dangerous out here you know, and with this heat you need to stay hydrated.”

“Thank you,” the stranger said. She took the bottle in her sun-darkened, olive-brown hand, enjoying the cold of it. “You’re too kind.”

“It’s the least I could do,” she said. “I’m Brithelt. I work in the War Veterans’ Assistance Bureau, in the main square off the other side of the park. If there’s anything I can do to help, stop by.”

“Thanks again, Brithelt. I’d tell you my name, but I don’t know what it was, and I hate the name Jane Doe.”

Brithelt waggled her antennae in assent. “I hope to see you again soon, Stranger.” She left the area under the gelfim walking so fast as to almost be running, only slowing down once she had reached the area where the shave ice vendor sat under an umbrella.

The stranger picked up her arm where it lay next to her and reattached it to the stump below her left shoulder. After flexing the robotic hand a couple times, she picked up her leg and attached it to the stump above where her left knee used to be.

She stood and picked up her heavy pack, slinging it over her shoulder. She’d have to find somewhere to sleep, and she hoped she could find something with air conditioning. Despite the technical nature of her arm, her prosthetic leg was basic, resulting in a rolling gait as she was forced to raise that hip to get the foot to clear the ground.

 The main square was busy for how miserable the weather was, but her destination was beyond that. She walked toward the industrial area. Cheaper accommodations could be found in the dirtier, noisier parts of cities. That was the same everywhere.

The stranger finally found a small boarding house behind a factory. She decided the cool, dry air in the room made up for the noise of the non-stop machines a scant fifty meters away that made, in all likelihood, more machines. The boarding house also didn’t require identification, accepted paper credits, and the room included an ensuite washroom.

She looked at herself in the dingy mirror of the washroom. Her close-cropped, light brown hair was sun-bleached to a straw blonde, her dark brown eyes looked black in the dim light of the room, and the scar that crossed from the bridge of her narrow nose across her left cheek, ending at her jaw stood out in sun-burned pink.

She took off her shirt, washed it in the sink, wrung it out, and hung it on the mirror to dry. She followed up by removing her leg and washing the sweat-soaked, padded sock and liner she wore under her prosthetic leg. After that, she did the same for the sock and liner for her arm.

The stranger filled the shallow tub with tepid water and climbed in. She scrubbed with soap and a rag, turning the water brown, then drained and refilled the tub to rinse as much of the residue off as she could.

She patted herself dry with a towel, grabbed her arm and leg, and hopped out to the room. She put the prosthetics where they got plenty of direct air from the vents, then lay on the hard bed to cool herself and drifted off to sleep.

The morning dawned heavily overcast with scattered showers, though the temperature remained high all through the night. The stranger walked out of the boarding house into a wall of damp heat.

She returned to the main square of the city and began searching for an address she had in her obsolete comm device. Spotting the address, she put the comm away and crossed the square to an office building. The doors opened with a blast of cool air and she walked in.

“Dr. Agellia?” she asked the receptionist.

“Take the lift to seven, his office is second to the right.”

The stranger nodded and took the elevator to the designated floor. She stopped just outside the elevator and set her pack on the floor. From her pack, she carefully unwrapped a small device. It was a box connected by wires to a metal halo. She pulled out two cylinders and screwed them into the halo.

Device in hand, she walked into the doctor’s office, under the sign that said, “Memory Treatments.”

She didn’t recognize him from anywhere other than the pictures she’d managed to find, but she saw his shocked recognition. His antennae twitched for a moment until he managed to get himself under control.

“I see you remember me,” she said. “Must be nice, I don’t remember you at all.”

“Where did you get that?” he asked, looking at the device she carried.

“Not your concern.” The stranger set the device on his desk. “This is the same thing you used on me, right?”

She leaned on the desk. “Don’t bother with an answer, I can see I’m right.”

“I didn’t want to do it,” he said, “because I knew it was a risk. You’d just been blown up in a covert op, for all the gods’ sake, but they made me.”

“They made you?” The stranger pulled out her comm device and played an audio recording. In it, Dr. Agellia could be heard saying, “We don’t know. We haven’t tried it on a human. Let’s test it on the Jane Doe. This could be valuable data. It’s not like she’s going to live much longer anyway. I’ll start small and erase just the mission.”

Agellia’s antennae flattened against his face, his ear slits opened wide. “But you’re here, so some memory must’ve come back.”

“No, doctor, it didn’t.” She pointed at the halo. “Put it on.”

“Now—now, this is not—this is a bad idea….”

“I said PUT IT ON!” She slammed her robotic hand on the desk, causing him to jump.

He sat frozen. The stranger picked up the halo and put it on his head. She flipped a switch on the device it was attached to and turned the dial all the way up.

“Can you fix my brain?” she asked.

“Wha—what?”

“My brain,” she said, pointing at her head. “Can you fix it? Can you get my memories back? I don’t even know my own goddamned name!”

“I can’t.”

“Can’t or won’t?” she asked.

“It’s not something I can do,” he said, his entire body trembling.

“It’s your choice. You either fix my brain, or I turn this on and those needles go into your brain, and I see how much of you I can erase.”

“But I—”

“Can it be done?!” She slammed her hand on the desk again for emphasis, making him jump once more.

“Theoretically, but I don’t know—”

“Good enough,” she said. She typed something into the device and turned the dial down. “I won’t erase your education. Just the last — say — six years. Everything that happened since just before you mangled my brain.”

“No, please! You’re being rash. Think this through!” he pleaded.

“I’ve been thinking this through for six years. Ever since I woke from a coma up in a military hospital ship, missing an arm and a leg, and filled with enough shrapnel to give a scrapyard operator a hard-on.”

She sighed. “Between surgeries, I had to learn all over how to talk, read, write, walk — with only one leg, mind you — and even tie my shoes one-handed. You. Took. My. Life.

“The only clues I had were that my DNA and prints were tied to a completely redacted military identity, and this recording on a burner comm. If anything, I’ve been patient.” She flipped the switch that sent the needles deep into his brain and started up the machine.

“I’ll see you when you wake up, stranger.”

prompt: Your character wants something very badly — will they get it?

available at Reedsy

There is little in life more disappointing than having the target of your desire snatched from your grasp at the last moment. Alex knew that feeling all too well. The third time was not the charm, as the saying would have one believe; neither were the fourth, fifth or sixth.

Alex smoothed her jumpsuit. It was a copy of the ones worn by everyone else around her, made smaller and shaped to fit her. The cool grey of the jumpsuit clashed with her warm, golden-brown skin, reddish brown hair, and bright brown eyes, but she’d gotten used to it.

“Are you okay, little one?” The querent wore a matching jumpsuit, though half a meter taller, with six sleeves that decreased in size from the top pair to the bottom, heavily sloped shoulders, and a collar that would look at home on an alpaca.

The creature that filled out the jumpsuit had pale blue skin under a thick layer of grey-white vellus hair. Large, oval, compound eyes reflected the light from the windows like a finely cut gem.

“You can’t call me that anymore, Gerla.” Alex crossed her arms in an exaggerated huff. “I’m an adult now. I don’t know for sure, but I’d guess I’m twenty-one or two in Earth years.”

“Yes, but I’m still bigger than you.”

“Not fair. I’m tall for a human, especially a human woman, but you’ll always be taller.”

“I’ll always be older as well.” Gerla petted Alex’s hair with one of their top hands. “You’ll always be the baby that was dropped off with me by the scout mission.”

“Baby nothing. I was seven and tending a flock of sheep by myself.” Alex sighed. “I guess I should be grateful that they brought me here instead of straight to the labs.”

“Almost as grateful as I am,” Gerla said.

Alex hugged the creature. “Quit being so sweet, Gerla. I’m trying to be mad at you for calling me little.”

“You can be mad at me after the hearing. We’ll have time for it then.” Gerla moved one compound eye close to Alex’s face and the nictitating membrane closed and opened over it. Alex recognized it as always coming before a serious question.

“What is it?”

“Why are you still trying?” the creature asked. “What do you hope to gain? Freedom to return to your home?”

Alex shook her head. “This is my home — here with you, and all my friends. I can’t even remember what my mother or father looked like, or the name of the hills where we lived.”

“Then why?”

Alex stepped back from Gerla and spread her arms. “What do you see when you look at me?”

“I see Alex—”

“No,” she cut them off, “when you really look at me. You see a human, the only one on this planet. At least the courts have finally decided I’m sapient, after completing all the normal schooling a thoran child would receive and learning all the official languages of Sular.

“Still not a citizen, though. Still an orphan, as they won’t let you legally adopt me.” She dropped her arms to her sides and a hardness overtook her face. “This is my last chance. The final appeal. I’ve overcome every obstacle they’ve thrown in my way, just for them to find new, inventive ways of denying me this last, simple thing.”

“A finding from the court means nothing,” Gerla said. “It also doesn’t matter that we share no DNA, you are my progeny, and I am your progenitor. Forever—”

“And always,” Alex finished. “But this is important to me.”

Gerla put an arm around Alex’s shoulders. “I’m behind you all the way.”

Alex nodded and checked the time on the wall display. “We’re up.”

The heavy white doors opened with a soft hiss and Alex marched into the courtroom, head held high. She stood at the tall bench which reached her armpits.

A bailiff brought over a small step for her, so she would be tall enough to talk into the microphone and she accepted it with a polite smile. Unlike the other appeals as she worked her way up in the system, this courtroom was packed with spectators.

There was a steady murmur that spread through the crowd as she entered and continued until the bell of court rang and brought them all to their feet. The judges entered and sat at their bench, above the courtroom where they looked down on the proceedings.

The bell rang again, and the spectators sat. The attorney for the state tilted their head towards Alex and slowly closed and opened their nictitating membranes. Alex returned the silent greeting as best she could with a head tilt and slow blink.

The lead judge spoke. “We are gathered to hear the case of Alex, semi-sapient specimen, petitioning for Sulari citizenship. Is that correct?”

The state’s attorney made no move to correct the judge, so Alex herself did. “Your honors, the District of Corima court declared me fully sapient and capable of entering into legal contracts over four revolutions ago.”

“State’s attorney, is this correct?” one of the other judges asked.

“It is, your honors.”

“You would do well to keep your motions up to date. Seeing that this appeal was filed two revolutions ago, the state had ample time to update their position.” The lead judge flipped papers with their lowest, smallest hands, while their upper hands formed the pose for a query.

“Given that the State’s initial position was based on the plaintiff’s status as a semi-sapient, am I to take it that your arguments are all based on that as well?”

“No, your honors. Our arguments are valid regardless of the findings of the lower court on plaintiff’s sapience.”

“Very well. The court will hear the plaintiff’s arguments first.”

The four judges looked toward the plaintiff’s bench, and the one closest to that end raised their upper hands in query. “Are we to understand that you are representing yourself? Here? In the highest court in the land?”

“I am, your honors.”

“If you would indulge us, why?”

Alex tilted her head. “The reasoning for that will be become clear in my arguments, your honors.”

“Very well. Proceed.”

“I would first like to say that, contrary to the State’s fears, I do not plan on attempting to return to the planet of my origin and providing advanced technology to a savage world.”

“Objection! Assumption of motive,” the state’s attorney called out.

“Sustained,” the head judge said. “Please stick to the facts.”

Alex smiled. “I call your attention to plaintiff’s evidence items one through four. These are the rejection letters for my adoption from the Enclave, City, District, and State. In every one of them, the stated reason is that I may, and I quote, ‘Return to the planet of origin and provide that savage world with advanced technology.’ End quote.”

The state’s attorney seemed to shrink. Alex knew how old those documents were, and as she’d only found them after the last lost appeal — buried within the mountain of discovery her last attorney had largely ignored — was certain that they hadn’t thought they would be brought up.

“Which brings me to the point of self-representation. Besides missing these documents in discovery, my previous attorney was too expensive to continue with. Having no rights as a citizen, I can’t work to earn money. Being unable to support myself, I am, as an adult, still as reliant on Gerla, my state-appointed guardian, as I was a child.”

Alex looked at each of the judges in turn as she spoke. “I was brought here by a scouting party as a ‘biological sample’ eighteen revolutions ago. I did not come of my own volition, I did not volunteer, and I am not a refugee. I am, however, in every other sense, an orphan now. I don’t remember much of my family on Earth or even Earth itself.”

She took a deep breath. “If not for Gerla, I would likely have been dissected long ago. They taught me the languages of Sulari, how to read and write, and everything I needed to know to get by in thoran society, except for how to turn into a thoran.”

She swallowed hard. “In the Sulari constitution, citizenship is offered to every person, no matter where born, by naturalization of twelve revolutions. I remind the court, I have been here for eighteen revolutions.

“It is arguable that when that was written, one-thousand, two-hundred-eighteen revolutions ago, ‘person’ meant only thoran. As of two-hundred-nine revolutions ago, though, that no longer holds true.

“This court, in the case of The Senate versus Senator Burla, found that any sapient is entitled to the same protections offered to ‘persons’ in the constitution. If that truly is the case, why, historically, has that extended only to protection against abuse and not protection against disenfranchisement?

“I would like to also call your attention to the Sulari Book of the Law, volume four-hundred, Section thirty-four-eighty-two-point-nine, paragraph two. ‘Pursuant to Galactic Trade Laws, Sular will make no law nor finding that is in violation of the Galactic Rights of Sapients, as ratified on the seventh day of revolution three-thousand-twelve.’

“The Galactic Rights of Sapients, number eight, which has remained unchanged since then states, ‘Any sapient who is unable to return to their home world or another world of their species, shall be considered stateless. No member state of the Galactic Trade may refuse citizenship to a stateless sapient on request.’

“The state has already made it clear that I cannot return to my home planet, and my species only has the one. As such, the quoted laws make the state’s actions illegal and unconscionable.”

Tears began to pool in her eyes. “Your honors, I have no illusions about my position. In time, Gerla will grow old and feeble, no longer able to work. The state will provide for her retirement, but that retirement doesn’t cover feeding, clothing, and housing me.

“Further, that retirement is only the barest of essentials. Gerla has been a parent to me and taken care of me the majority of my life. I’m just asking for the right to take care of them in their old age. As a citizen, and as their lawfully adopted progeny, I can do that. As a ‘biological sample that happens to be sapient’, I can’t.”

Alex wiped her tears. “Thank you, your honors. Nothing more.”

She’d done her best, taken her best shot. Now it was down to the state’s attorney and the judges. Alex listened to the state’s attorney hem and haw over reasons why she shouldn’t be allowed citizenship. When it turned, inevitably, to travel to Earth with all the ‘dangerous technology’ of the thorans, she couldn’t help but roll her eyes.

Finally, the state’s attorney ran out of steam, and the judges left the chamber to discuss and make their decision. This was the part she hated the most, the waiting.

The wait was short, the judges returning in a matter of minutes. The lead judge said, “I have some questions for the plaintiff.”

“Yes, your honor.” Alex’s heart fell. This didn’t feel like it was going to be good news.

“How many of your previous attorneys brought up the original rejection letters?”

“None, your honor.”

“And how many of them brought up the Sulari constitution — specifically, naturalization?”

“One, your honor.”

“And did that one bring up The Senate versus Senator Burla?”

“No, your honor.”

They tilted their head. “And how many of your attorneys brought up the Galactic Rights of Sapients, and legal Section three-four-eight-two-point-nine, paragraph —” they flipped through their notes, “— paragraph two?”

“None, your honor.”

“Where did you study law?”

“In the law library of District of Corima. Gerla was kind enough to escort me there every spare moment for the last two revolutions so I could prepare for this.”

“No formal schooling?” one of the other judges asked.

“No, your honor. As a non-citizen, I’m not entitled to free education, and on Gerla’s salary there was no way we could afford it.”

The lead judge took over again. “If given citizenship, you mentioned you want to work. What kind of work would you do?”

Alex shrugged. “Anything. I’ll tend livestock, scrub floors, anything.”

They tilted their head again. “Have you considered a career in law?”

“I, uh — not until this moment.”

The judges whispered among themselves, then the bell rang again. The judges stood, and the spectators stood as well.

“It is the finding of this court that the plaintiff has neither the motive nor the means to return to their home planet. As such, the state has violated Sulari law, Section three-four-eight-two-point-nine. Plaintiff is awarded full citizenship immediately, and the rejection of the original adoption request is hereby overturned.”

The lead judge raised their upper hands in query. “Is your adoptive progenitor here today?”

“Yes, your honor.”

“One of the bailiffs will escort you to my office where I will be honored to perform your swearing-in ceremony and sign your adoption decree. As a citizen, I would highly recommend law school, and I hope to see you here again in the future, representing someone else.”

prompt: Write about someone who’s traveling to a place they’ve never been to meet someone they’ve never met.

available at Reedsy

Dr. A was probably the most famous anonymous person in the world. There are plenty of published scientists who are little-known and content to be private, and then there’s Dr. A. The Nobel committee spent over a year before they found someone who was in contact with the brilliant polymath. All their searching was met with an immediate refusal. Dr. A was not going to be seen in public, nor did they want the committee’s attention.

Despite this, the anonymous doctor had authored and published no fewer than seventy-four peer-reviewed papers in twenty-two journals. Every publication came with the same stipulation: the publication must be made available to the public for free, and all of Dr. A’s work is released into the public domain. With new insights in Quantum Mechanics, Physics, Materials Science, Mathematics, Optics, Medicine, Artificial Intelligence, and Economics, Dr. A’s work had sent dozens of industries leapfrogging each other to ever greater heights.

It was the Ultra-resolution MRI analyzed by a medical AI in a quantum computer that found a clump of four cancer cells in my brain. Besides finding the cancer, the UMRI was capable of focusing its magnetic field to a single cell, destroying it and the chemical signal it would normally send on apoptosis.

 I discovered I had brain cancer, and it was eliminated in the same visit, all without any symptoms. Since then, I’ve had annual follow-up visits where the procedure has been repeated. The largest clump was the second year, with nine cells. This year was the second in a row that there were none.

That’s all a very roundabout way of saying that, thanks to Dr. A’s work, I’m alive. As such, I’ve made it my mission to meet the person behind the pseudonym and shake their hand.

I started my search with the former members of the Nobel Committee for Physics, trying to contact the person or people who had contact with Dr. A in the past. After getting the runaround with emails, letters, phone calls, and even the odd fax, I decided I’d have to talk to someone in person.

Where I’d gotten put off, shuffled or ignored over other communications media, in person I was simply stonewalled. The committee and its members, past and present, take the privacy of recipients and nominees very seriously.

I’d spent nearly a month in Stockholm and was preparing to admit defeat, when I was approached in a coffee shop. I’m not sure that “approached” is the right word. A small person in a rain slicker brushed past me, reached out with a delicate, russet hand, and left a calling card in my coat pocket.

There was nothing on the card aside from a phone number. I waited until I was in my hotel room to call.

“You are looking for Dr. A?” the distorted voice that answered the call asked.

“Yes, I am. I—”

“Why?” they cut me off.

“I just want to meet them and thank them. I’m alive because of—”

“UMRI, nascent glioma. Multiple diagnoses and treatments,” the voice said, “we know. Is that all?”

“Is that all?!” Try as I might, I couldn’t keep my frustration out of my voice. “I want to meet the person who gave me the last nine years of my life, and every year that’s still to come after. I don’t care if I never learn their name or anything else about them. I just want…” I tapered off as realization hit.

“What is it you want?”

Brutal honesty was the tactic I chose. Not so much for the voice on the phone, but for myself. “I want to sit in the presence of someone so far beyond my intellect and just soak it in. It would be like being in the presence of a god.”

“You consider Dr. A a god?”

“No, that’s hyperbole. But I really do idolize them as humanity’s greatest modern benefactor. Dr. A is my sole hero.”

“Never meet your heroes.” The voice on the other end was quiet for a moment, then said, “If you want to continue your quest, call this number after you clear customs at Bagdogra airport.” There was nothing further as they hung up.

I spent the last week I had booked in Stockholm applying for an e-visa from India, picking it up at the Indian embassy, booking my flight to India, and canceling my flight home. At the recommendation of the woman at the Indian embassy, I also applied for and received an e-visa for Bhutan, since I’d be right there. Contrary to what I’d heard, it wasn’t difficult or expensive in the least.

I spent every moment I was out and about looking for the small person that had slipped me the card, but never saw them again. For just a moment, I thought maybe it was the woman at the embassy, but her nails were long, and her hands stained with faded henna. The hand that slipped the card into my pocket had neither.

I don’t know what I expected, but Bagdogra airport could’ve been any modern airport anywhere in the world. Some part of my mind was expecting something more…exotic, I guess. Ny unconscious bias leaking through.

When I called the number, the distorted voice answered on the first ring. “Your car is waiting,”

Considering what the voice on the phone knew about me already, it was no surprise that they were waiting for me as I arrived. I made my way out of the terminal and found a chauffeur standing in front of an old Toyota off-road truck with no top. The dissonance of the bespoke suit and pristine driving gloves of the tall man holding a sign with my name in front of a rugged, dented, and decidedly dirty truck did my head in. It seemed that my trip kept getting stranger by the minute.

He held the door for me, placed my single suitcase in the back, and gave a slight bow. The driver I hadn’t noticed, on account of her small stature, fired up the truck and we pulled into traffic as though we were racing to a fire.

After fifteen minutes in traffic, she turned onto a dirt road and sped up. Where I’d felt she was a dangerous driver before, now I thought she might be suicidal. No matter what I said, she never responded. I took the time to look at her hands. This might be the person that slipped me the card.

As the road disappeared and she drove through woods heading north, I watched her. There was something about the way she moved that convinced me she was the one.

I waited for a moment where the ground was a little smoother and the truck wasn’t rattling so much to say, “Thank you. … For slipping me the card, I mean.”

I couldn’t see her face, as there was no rear-view mirror, but I thought I saw her nod, just a little. It wasn’t until we finally stopped in front of a small house in the middle of nowhere that I thought about where we might be. The script on the door of the house was not like those I’d seen in India.

“We could’ve crossed at the official border,” I said, “I have a Bhutanese visa.”

The driver said, “I don’t. Neither does the doctor.” She got out of the truck and waited. There was to be no white-glove treatment here. I got out of the truck and grabbed my suitcase from the back. The dust of our off-road trip coated her face, and — I suspected — mine.

I followed her to the house, where we washed our hands, arms, and face in the icy water from a well pump. Following her lead, I took my shoes off on the small porch and followed into the house, dimly lit with a kerosene lamp in the deepening evening.

There, in an unassuming house in Bhutan, I met Dr. A and promised to keep their identity secret. They called the driver “Deva” even though I was assured that was not her real name.

The three of us had spicy chicken stew and red rice lager and talked into the wee hours of the morning. Both Deva and the doctor had done even more traveling in the previous weeks than I, and we were both out of whack with the local time, which made for a long conversation that began pleasantly enough.

What came next, however, soured the mood. The doctor told me that they were not the author of all the papers that bore their pseudonym. They had come from a future where the wealthy had pillaged everything the world had to offer before they traveled to the stars. The poor were left stranded and starving on a dying rock.

All the science that was changing medicine and physics and industry had been secret in their future and had been used to further enrich the wealthy and take them to the stars. Buried in the combination of it, they had missed how it made time travel possible. The doctor said their world had been different in the 2020’s, though.

I offered the possibility that other travelers had gone further back and changed something, and the doctor responded with the possibility that they had traveled to an alternate universe instead. Either way, they didn’t want to see what had happened to their world happen here.

When I asked about keeping the time travel secret, they said they weren’t worried about it. No one will believe it until the group of post-docs working on it at Caltech built the first working prototype. They estimated it would be done within the year. Once it’s built and proven, it’s a moot point.

The science has already been peer reviewed, the results replicated, and what could have amounted to billions of dollars’ worth of patents have been put into the public domain.

As I was preparing to leave, Dr. A said, “My world is already dead, my future is sealed. Yours is at the turning point. It’s up to you to do something about it.”

“How much of a difference can I make?” I asked.

They smiled, and the last thing they said to me was, “Think of all the time travel stories you know, how changing one small thing can drastically alter the future. That’s how. One small, positive change at a time.”