A Tragic Blunder

Cut. I can’t seem to be able to piece the picture together. I... where am I? This can’t be happening! I close my eyes, rub them with my fist and open them again. I’m looking at the sea from a plateau in Thyssus. The midday sun is gently caressing my uncovered back, and I hear a flock of sheep bleating in the distance. I turn around slowly, already knowing what sight to expect, even though I know I shouldn’t be here. And shouldn’t be now.

            There it is. My humble cottage. My garden, my well, my stables. My wife. I suppress a surprised yell roaring up from my stomach, and hold on to the trunk of the nearest alder tree, almost fainting. Oh, my sweet Aglaia, it was but ages ago when I last held your beauteous face between my hands, when I last tasted your lips, when I last felt your curvaceous body, your marble skin stretching against mine! And now here you are, walking through the garden dreamily, the mild summer breeze blowing through your curly chestnut hair as you go. I know this can’t be true; I know she drowned four years ago – the treacherous sea claimed her forever. Yet, here she is now, as real as the sturdy trunk I’m gripping so hard my fingers turn whiter than ivory. I let go of it, and start running, clumsily at first, almost falling. My heart is throbbing in my throat, and I try shouting her name, but it’s only a hoarse, desperate grunt that escapes my mouth. I’m getting closer; I can already make out that beautiful constellation of faded moles on her back, under her left shoulder; oh, how much have I prayed to see that sight even if just once again! I double my steps, becoming more and more light-headed, as my breathing – just like my heartbeat – becomes completely erratic. I close to her, panting – almost there – and stretch my hand, then my fingers, to reach her silky skin. Almost.

            Cut. Metal ringing, the smell of blood and sweat, the sound of loud grunts and cries. I open my eyes. I don’t know if it’s my instinct or the years’ experience, but I swiftly dodge the sword and parry it with my shield. I stab the damned Persian (I immediately recognize his distinctive armoury) between the ribs, and as he collapses, gurgling and clutching at his wound, I look around and remember the scene at once. Pillars of smoke in front of the dark red sky, mutilated corpses lying around in heaps, and an endless sight of enraged soldiers engaged in a deadly and desperate struggle for victory and survival. Flesh against flesh, steel against steel; steel against flesh. Something like this is impossible to forget: I’m in Plataia, fighting the long and bloody battle during which we ultimately crushed the fearsome and dire Persian invasion. But... what am I doing here?

            I have no time to ponder this mystery as, arrows whirring by my ear, I see another vile Persian advancing towards me. I look into his eyes: tired and bloodshot, yet still gleaming with the ecstasy of engagement and the thrill of killing. I rush onto him, bringing my sword down as hard as I can, but he catches it with his shield, wobbling momentarily under the strength of my blow. Without missing a heartbeat, he already strikes back, thrusting his sword towards my stomach – I pull back, but it is bare luck that saves me this time; a mere split second delay would have surely meant my death. We engage in a grim and lethal dance, our swords clashing together again and again, but my experience and perseverance slowly tips the balance in my favour. His strikes lose from their impulse, his grip loosens on his shield, and, eventually, I break through his defence and with my face inches away from his and my nose full with the penetrating smell of his sweat and his fear, I raise my sword for the killing blow.

            Cut. Wet. Water. Salt. I sense a flash of purple light behind my eyelids, and open my eyes, only to get them immediately sprayed with water. A deafening crackle makes my heart jump, and I realize: I’m in the very middle of a thunderstorm. On a ship. Monstrous waves engulf it – and me – from time to time, and inbetween them, when I’m not gulping on the salty seawater, it is the dense and ice-cold curtain of rain that makes it hard for me to get enough air into my lounges. As the next lightning (striking uncomfortably close to us) allows me to catch a quick glance of my surroundings, I suddenly remember: I am on the sea, on my way to Acanthos. My parents have just died, and I set out to find a master, a profession, and, a new life. And indeed, this is the time when my second life beings: in every aspect. But how can I remember if I’m here? I look at my hands grabbing at the mast: they are thin and the skin looks soft and scarless. I am young again. I wonder if I’m merely dreaming, but this can’t the case: the cold water beating down on me, entering my lungs through my mouth and nose, the lack of air, the choking: it is way too realistic to be merely the product of my mind.

            Poseidon is furious; the ship is being tossed around like a wooden child’s toy on the humongous waves. During the next brief moment of brightness I see a member of the crew sliding down the deck as the ship turns into an almost completely horizontal position: he hits the parapet before falling into the dark sea, and as I watch his spine bend backwards abnormally, I hear it crack – of course it is only my imagination: there is no way that sound would get through the crackling of the thunder and the roaring of the maddened sea. I hang on to the mast with all my might, but it is wet and slippery, and my muscles are young and soft. I feel the wood slipping away from between my arms, and, as the ship and the world takes another frantic turn underneath me, I realize, frightened, that I’m falling towards the massive darkness below. I see a flash of red as I hit the sea’s surface, and as the ice-cold water envelops me, pushing the air out of my lungs, I see, from underneath, a blinding light, as the next thunderbolt thrown by the raging Zeus hits the ship directly, engulfing it in flames.

            Cut. The smell of hay, and dense morning mist. The sound of hooves clopping. The sensation of the clean and cold winter wind. I open my eyes.

            Why is this happening to me? Why...?

***

            ‘What do you mean he cut it up?’ asks Lachesis furiously.

            ‘Like that,’ shrugs Clotho. ‘He cut it up. But look, it’s bound again, I fixed it. No harm done.’

            The two Fates glare at the thread for a while. Despite all the effort to fix it, it looks pathetic. It is full of tiny knots, and is starting to unravel at certain sections.

            ‘Atropos will be sooo mad when she sees this,’ says Lachesis in an almost-whisper. ‘You know, how touchy she is about her scissor.’

            ‘I know, I know, but thanks for reminding me anyway,’ Clotho throws her hands in the air. ‘Listen, if she’s so afraid someone’s gonna touch it, maybe she shouldn’t have it laying around.’

            ‘Don’t try to blame it on her,’ replies Lachesis. ‘What was your kid doing in here in the first place? You know this room is off-limits for everyone! Any by that I mean everyone, this is serious stuff we’re playing with!’

            ‘Come on now,’ sighs the wary Fate. ‘I’ve got about twenty of them little devils. Can’t keep an eye on all of them! Besides, you know how curious those buggers are!’

            ‘But this isn’t child’s play!’ shouts Lachesis angrily. ‘You know about fate and continuity and all the rest! Can’t play with them!’

            ‘Yeah, try explaining that to a five years old...’ says Clotho, throwing herself into a massive wooden chair. ‘Besides, I only left for a cigarette break. I’m allowed to have one once in a while, am I not?’

            ‘Not when you’re alone!’ replies the other Fate angrily, walking up and down across the badly lit room. ‘One of us is always supposed to be around! You know, for cases when a little bugger decides to come in and have some fun with that freaking scissor!’

            ‘Now now, there’s no need to come down hard on good old Clotho!’ Clotho says, picking up the thread. ‘Look, I told you I fixed it. No one will ever notice what happened. It’s as good as new, and I’m certain I tied the parts back together in the right order. Almost certain...’ she adds mumbling, from the corner of her mouth.

            ‘Almost certain?!’ Lachesis is furious. ‘You know what you’re talking about? If Atropos finds it out, she’ll strangle us both with her bare hands! But shhh, here she comes, quickly, put it back where it was and hope she doesn’t notice it!’

            She obeys.

When Duty Calls

Ah, the Void. I would say that being here feels amazing, but, truth to tell, it doesn’t feel like anything. That’s the point of the whole thing, and I’m perfectly fine with it. There might be no happiness, pleasure or satisfaction, yes, but there is also no worrying, no stress, no anxiety - only the mindless drifting through nothingness. I like being dead.

            There’s something wrong with the situation though, however, I just can’t quite put my finger on the source of the problem. But suddenly I realize what’s been making me slightly uneasy (even though it wasn’t supposed to happen here): there was something, just at the border of being audible, for quite some time already, but it was so quiet that it could have merely been an irate silence. Only by straining my non-existent ears do I manage to finally pick up the signal and realize with fury what it exactly is.

            Shit, not again.

            Some bored or desperate (or both) people are doing a séance again. Why can’t they ever knock it off? This is like the twentieth time my carefree nap had been interrupted, and each and every one of these occasions just makes me more and more annoyed. As their humming grows louder and louder, I feel as if my body was anchored and being pulled by a gentle but invisible force towards the direction of the ever so annoying noise. As my long-forgotten senses awake yet again, I start to see a dim room packed with rather bizarre props and whatnots: incenses, skulls, candles, crystal balls, you name it. Of course, as a skeptic, it all makes me want to laugh out loud. How could they believe in all that bullshit?

            I notice the main troublemaker: a gypsy woman with huge golden earrings is sitting at one end of the circle, with the other three holding hands with eyes tightly shut with concentration. Some of them even have beads of sweat appearing on their foreheads. Pathetic bastards, putting their faith and trust into something as useless as a séance like this. Not to mention the fact that they dragged me out of my eternal slumber during the process. The gypsy woman raises her head with her eyes looking into the void, and starts speaking in a voice that is clearly meant to be mystical; I find it rather annoying. She welcomes me in their company and promptly starts my interrogation. I join their stupid game: this is not the first time I’m doing this crap.

            She asks me who I am. I tell her I’m the relative of one of the attended, and that my name starts with either an E, an M, an N, or an A. To help out a little, I tell them that I had a bruise on my left knee. Since they want more information to confirm my identity, I tell them everything I can to make it so. I tell the chubby guy that he likes the colour blue and considers himself hard-working, yet caring. I tell the younger, red-haired girl that once she fell off the tree in their backyard. I inform the weeping guy with the goatee that he’s a sensitive person, but doesn’t have to worry: it takes all sorts to make a world. The gypsy woman asks me how I died. I answer by telling that I was close to water. Also that I had some medical issues, with my stomach and my throat. I tell them that I love them, and that they should try to avoid fatty food, and try exercising twice a week. And that sufficient sleep will make their skin smooth again. Then I say good-bye.

God damn it, when I remember how bad I felt after the first time I did this, but I realized: this is what you get if you believe in bullshit like this. Open your eyes and look around yourself for solutions. Learn to let go. Don’t look for the ultimate answer in a plane that you don’t even have anything to do with. The resolution is always in the same world as the problem. If someone tells you otherwise, you have the best reason to be mistrustful.

Finally, the gypsy witch decides I suffered enough, and releases me, thanking me for my assistance and wishing me a safe journey back to the land of the dead. I kick up one of the chairs as I leave, not as much as a sign of my presence as of my annoyance. Still, it feels good to scare those bastards a bit. Time to get back to my well-deserved rest. At any rate, I swear to... well whatever, the next time some assholes try summoning me, I’ll just play dead.

Misadventure on the Green Planet

            It all happened during the first days of our semester. Me and my friend Zlad have just arrived to the Green Planet as transfer students. I still remember the excitement I felt during our first walk on the streets of the Capital City. I have to admit that – judging by the brochures and informational tapes I saw about the planet – I was expecting something more... different. The truth was, however, that we could barely differentiate between the inhabitants of our new homeworld, and Planet Earth. People seemed a bit more relaxed, open-minded, and friendly, but it was too early to draw judgement, as we only met an insignificant fraction of the planet’s population. At any rate, we had a great time. Until the incident, that is. 

            A few days after our arrival we decided to pay a visit to Delta Park, which was supposedly a must-see for everyone who set foot on this world. Returning space-farers often mused for hours about the unique kind of peace they found there while lying in the grass between the gigantic pine-trees, listening to the bumblebees (that were quite larger yet more lazy and peaceful than their counterparts on Earth) buzzing around, and the mellow tinkling sound of the delicate streams flowing between the carefully placed rocks. We decided it was high time we checked with our own eyes if those myths were true. For safety measures, we put some of our beers (it was I who accidentally packed it into our luggage before leaving Earth, but we were quite happy about finding it out) into our bags.

            Delta Park lived up to its premise. The majestic trees, the warm breeze on our skin, the clean laughter of the little children who ran around carelessly all made us forget about our worries concerning our studies. We enjoyed some light-hearted conversation or just the mere sight of the warm and welcoming colours of the park, and were gulping down on our beers with apparent pleasure. I still vividly remember the moment when I noticed something strange on Zlad’s face: a glimpse of confusion and surprise crossed it for a brief moment and, as I followed his gaze, I noticed two seemingly enraged policemen advancing towards us.

            “Oh, you’re in trouble now, boys” the one with the beard said “You don’t wanna know how big trouble you are in. IDs. Now.”

            “What seem to be the problem, offi...”

            “IDs. Now.” Interrupted the bald cop Zlad, raising his voice perhaps just a bit more than it was necessary.

            So we showed them our IDs, and let them search us thoroughly, still not having the slightest idea about what was going on. One of the cops mumbled something into his walkie-talkie. I couldn’t understand what he said, but I thought I heard the word ‘junkies’. They gave us our stuff back (except the beers which they put into little plastic bags, and took with themselves) and prompted us into a police car. They weren’t too gentle while doing so. When we tried to ask them what we did, they told us to shut up. Things were looking bad.

            By the time we got to the police station, the last remaining morsels of our moral were methodically trampled into nonexistence by the policemen. Even though they refused to tell us the exact cause of our detainment, they just wouldn’t stop talking about what scum they believed us to be for corrupting the society.

            So in a cell we were being put, Zlad and I, and we spent about three hours there, between some tattooed or toothless, but generally smug-looking criminals without the slightest conception of why we were put there in the first place. When we tried to talk, we’ve been hissed or growled at by the policemen. It was apparent by the way they looked at us that we must have done something horrible. After seemingly endless hours of waiting, we’ve been collected and urged to see the sergeant on duty.

            When we were left alone with the morose-looking man with freckled skin and eyebrows so thick that smaller birds could have nested in it, he looked at us for long-long seconds with barely concealed disgust.

            “Well, boys,” he said eventually “From Planet Earth as I heard, yes?”

            As it turned out, we were not the only ones in a similar situation. In fact, there were dozens of students every year from our homeworld who happened to commit the same misdemeanour. Since the politicians of the Capital City got fed up by these “shameless attempts to spread moral decay and ideological corruption”, they decided it was high time they began properly punishing those who did not obey the regulations regarding this serious issue. Namely, the consumption of alcohol.

            “Why, of course it is illegal!” said the sergeant, answering our surprised inquiry, “It is one of the most dangerous substances known to man. Destroys your liver, your kidneys, your stomach, teeth, brain, all that in no time! And you haven’t even thought about your personality, your family, your future. Great job boys, way to wreck your life at such a young age!”

            When we started protesting, pointing out that we merely had two bottles of beer each, he laughed out in a rather cynical way.

            “That is how you all begin” he said, smearing his mighty eyebrows with a greasy thumb “A glass of beer first, then a bottle of wine, a few shots of vodka... hardly any time has to pass until you start off every day with some booze and, eventually, you catch yourself stealing your parents’ money just to get your hands on some cheap liquor. I’ve seen such stories, plenty of, and let me tell you: there’s no happy ending.”

            When we pointed out the fact that we’ve been actually happily consuming beer for ages without it turning us into raging alcoholics, all we got from him was an annoyed snort.

            “That’s what all of them says,” he said. “That’s what all of them says. Think you have control over it, don’t ya? Well, my friends, you are badly mistaken to believe that you can decide when you want to get off this ride! One beer, that’s all it takes, mark my words. That’s all it takes. What were you dumb-wits thinking, drinking in public, in front of children? Aren’t you ashamed of yourself?” he was doing a great job at infuriating himself, I had to admit it. “What kind of ideas do you think you are planting in their little heads? I’m sorry, but I just can’t let you go around destroying the moral backbone of our society. Next time do what every law-abiding citizen does here: smoke a spliff instead. Idiots.”

            So that’s how we became criminals. They took our fingerprints, our mugshots, and locked us in for two months. Needless to say, that resulted in our studies coming to an abrupt yet inevitable end. We couldn’t wait to leave the god-forsaken planet behind us for good.

            I still remember how it was our very first thing after arrival to visit the first pub we saw and get drunk like there was no tomorrow. We went on some brutal drinking-sprees with Zlad in the following years, but in a strange yet unpreventable way our friendship faded in the course of time. Somehow that joint experience made something click; nothing was the same any more. Before long, we discontinued our drinking nights – which became more and more reckless with time – and barely heard of each other since. The last thing I heard about him was that he had one of his kidneys removed and, as a result, he had to spend half a year in some austere public clinic. Serves him right, for all that mindless drinking he did recently...

            As for me, I gave up the idea of getting a degree, and became a car mechanic. Not that it’s the best job I can think of, but provides me with enough to wet my whistle from time to time. Speaking of which, I think it’s time I stopped writing right now. All this rambling about past memories made me quite thirsty. I just need a small sip of something, nothing more... for old time's sake.

The Artifact

As sanctioned by the Intergalactic Federal Bureau, this story has been removed until further revision due to its lackluster ending. Such monstrosities shouldn't pollute the already miserable literary atmosphere of planet CHC/0079-157.

Signed: Harkloid Bleebretropf

Rebirth Control

When I died, I transcended life, time and matter, and saw the whole Universe without being constrained by the deceptive and earth-bound human mind. I saw that Reality was a perpetually repeating fractal-like structure, bent like a Möbius-strip, where the experiencer and the experienced fuse together to create the existing. It was beautiful. It was marvellous. I was at peace with everything at last. As space and time warped around me, I realized that I was on my way into my next life: a set of new decades in which I will have to observe and create, to uphold the existing system. I was ready to go.

Suddenly someone grabbed my arm. A hand in a suit.

“Excuse me,” its owner, a bald and bristly, and overall rather smug-looking guy said, “But what exactly are you doing, cutting the line like that?” He pointed towards a lengthy and curvy line which I, for some reason, failed to notice up until that point. “Gotta check the permits, see?”

“The what?” I asked, taken aback. I felt like I was losing ground, in a literal sense, of course; there was hardly any underneath me as it were.

“The permits, the permits” he replied, while steering me gently but firmly towards the end of the line. “Oi! You there stop this minute!” he started running towards someone else who was advancing towards a new existence in a quick and carefree manner. When he caught the poor soul, the guy in the suit looked back, and shouted, “You just be good and do as I said, okay? Don’t try anything fancy!”

So into the queue I stood. I was surrounded with seemingly lost and confused people. No one really knew what all this was all about and what was going to happen. I tried to ask some of the more friendly-looking folks, but everyone was at a loss. We tried to avoid each other’s eyes as the line advanced at an almost unbearably sluggish speed. At one point a group of Christians passed by, flying upwards in white chitons. They were apparently having fun over our misfortune. Some of them even made some unambiguous gestures and some were laughing out loud, pointing fingers at us.

 “So long suckers!” one of them shouted out, “Looks like you’ll be here for quite a while!”

 “Yeah, well, have fun in heaven!” someone who I couldn’t see replied from the line. “Just try not to die out of boredom while playing your lyre, sitting on a cloud!”

 “Serves ‘em right” grumbled and elder, wrinkled guy next to me. “Who’d want to spend eternity in a place where sex and gambling ain’t allowed?”

The next couple of hours went away rather uneventfully. By the time I got close to the end of the line I could sometimes catch a glimpse of what was going on. A huge mahogany desk was floating there, with a morose-looking man sitting behind it. People went there one by one, talked with heavy gestures, even shouted sometimes, but generally just looked miserable or upset. Some of them (a tiny minority) were allowed to continue on their way to a brand new existence, but most of them were taken away by heavy guards dressed in suits. Where they went, I had no idea about.

I don’t know how much time it took me to finally get to the table. By that time I felt as if someone tied a knot on my intestines – a lot was at stake, after all.

 “Name please” the man said without even looking up from the papers in front of him. He looked eternally tired, with huge bags under his eyes and wrinkles on his forehead that looked as if they’ve been etched there with decades of hard work. It was immediately obvious that I won’t be able to argue with him. He somehow generated an aura that said if I’d be standing in front of him ablaze, he wouldn’t care about putting the fire out before he finished sharpening all his pencils and putting them in order according to hardness. He was a clerk.

I told him my name (which I hoped not to possess for much longer), my mother’s virgin name, my former address, my birthplace, and so on, and so on. He got quite irritated when I told him that I haven’t had my ID with me. He pushed a button and talked into some kind of microphone, asking the owner of the fuzzy voice that replied from the other side to look up some things for him.

“So,” he said, clasping his hands under his chin, “I supposed you don’t have your permission with you, either.”

“Excuse me,” I replied, confused, “But I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Gosh,” he sighed. “Don’t you people ever watch the news? Or read the papers? Or get informed in any way? You think that life – and death – are only about fun, right? No foresight, no responsibilities, eh? Making other people work for you while you enjoy things as you go.”

“I’m sorry, but...”

“Well that ain’t gonna happen anymore.” He interrupted me while bringing his fist down on the table. “You surely know about the new government regulation: no reincarnation without official government permission. I suppose you don’t have any with you now, would you?”

“No, but I’m...”

“Weeell, that is sad, my friend, that is sad. You should have received an official letter with the proper instructions on how to apply for one. If you were too lazy, didn’t get the mail or just thought you’ll manage somehow without it is none of my concern. But, alas, I’m sorry to say that I can’t allow you to continue living. Official instructions, you see.”

I was baffled. I always believed that somewhere, somehow, the Universe will be righteous in some way. That there is a fate, or karma, or some kind of system, that doesn’t allow injustice of this magnitude to happen. It seemed I was wrong.

“You will be now taken to the Limbo, to spend your remaining time there. Eternity, that is. Once again, I am most sorry for the current situation, but there's hardly anything to be done when faced with such irresponsible behaviour. Guards!” he shouted his last word in the microphone, and soon two heavy-framed men appeared next to me. They grabbed me by the shoulders and started firmly dragging me away from the table. I wanted to fight them, but I was too numb to do anything. I still couldn’t believe my situation; everything seemed dream-like, even more so than when I first arrived here.

Suddenly, I heard some kind of an uproar from the line. Apparently someone was shouting, but I couldn’t hear what exactly. As I turned my head backwards as much as I could, I saw some kind of stirring going on in the queue. As the rumbling got louder and louder, the line slowly disassembled, and formed a mob of some sorts. I could see a topless, long haired guy at the front, with determination blazing in his eyes. He looked like the revolutionary type.

“No one can deny life from us!” he shouted, while the people started to slowly group behind him. “We will live if we want to, or we will die trying!” He looked a bit puzzled for a moment about what he said, but recovered swiftly, and started sprinting in the direction of the gate that led to rebirth, screaming “To a new existence, brothers!”

The crowd cheered and shouted, shoving the surprised guards and the clerk at the table away, as they flowed towards the gate. I felt the grips released on my shoulders, as my guards decided that it was not by my side where they were needed right now. Needless to say, they were effortlessly swept away by the cheering crowd after their futile effort to stop its flow. I realized that it was now or never, and started running towards the gate, joining the mob. I felt immensely relieved, and I still remember bursting out in a carefree laugh when I took my last steps towards a brand new life.

Now I live in a rabbit, with six others. We don’t know why our memories weren’t cleansed before arriving to the new form, or why so many of us live in the same body, but we all suspect that it had to do with the fact that we all rushed into the gate at the same time. In any case, we’re not worried, at all. Life has its ways, and will sort things out eventually. Even bureaucracy can’t stop it.

The Rescue Mission

It was this very day two years ago when we received the first radio signals from extraterrestrial lifeforms. The signal was picked up by one of SETI’s dishes located in the Arecibo Observatory. I remember the uproar after one of the scientists noticed the ever-repeating series of prime numbers blended into the constant stream of meaningless background hiss. However cliché it was considered to be, it worked perfectly as a beacon to sign that whatever the source, it possesses intelligence, or, at least, intention.  While the answering signals were broadcasted in the general direction of the source, the astronomers quickly pinpointed its exact position: the signals came from a tiny spaceship orbiting Jupiter.

            Communication, while taking place painfully slowly (it took about half an hour for the signal to arrive to its destination), was set up quickly, and, after specifying and codifying a mutual language to communicate, informational exchange has begun. As it turned out, the ship was the member of an extraterrestrial civilisation's exploration fleet, searching for intelligent life throughout the galaxy. However, even in spite of the extreme precautions they took, their equipment started malfunctioning, and they became stranded on Jupiter’s orbit, unable to make any further progress. To make things worse, the cause of the malfunction was diagnosed to be an irreversible glitch in the ship’s central computer and it seemed to grow graver and graver every moment. It was only a matter of time that their life support system started malfunctioning as well ‒ the communications relay already showed troubling signs, and the routing computer gave up completely some time before. Since their communications relay started acting abnormally, they couldn’t send any information back to their homeworld, but they’ve been worried that help might arrive late from that distance anyways. They were alone and helpless.

            They have started to emit signals randomly in every direction, in the hope that an advanced enough civilization will pick them up and reply to them. The ship's navigators were immensely grateful about the fact that they’ve been stranded in a solar system that harbours intelligent and technologically developed life, and assured the humans to greatly repay the favour once rescued. They were counting their technological achievements they planned to share with us – with the secret of long distance space-faring and immortality on the list – when the signal abruptly broke up. Apparently their communication system couldn’t take it any longer.

            The spaceship was still lit and was slowly orbiting Jupiter, but no-one knew how much time was left for the rescue. But one thing was granted: everyone wanted the spacecraft for themselves. The race lasted for three months: the Americans, the Russians, the Chinese, and just about everyone who could afford it started space projects of grandeour – some states mass-produced automated drones that would attach themselves to the shuttle and bring it down to Earth, or just deliver a functioning relay to revive the broken communication. Most of them failed at start due to the rushed development; many of them failed in space or simply missed the target. None of them even got close. Some manned spacecrafts were also launched, operated by astronauts driven by the craving for immortality (now in every aspect). There was no plan on how to get them back, but there was hope that they’ll be able to do something, anything, once they arrived. They have hardly passed the first third of the route by now. And they will never reach their target.

            Ninety-nine days after the initial contact, the ship’s lights started to flicker and then went off. Some days later it disappeared behind Jupiter and all contact was lost. The space projects were promptly discontinued, but already a frightening amount of resources was spent on them. The partaking states were pointing fingers at each other, old conflicts were renewed and new ones created. At any rate, that was the last time we saw the spacecraft. If it is due to the imperfection of our telescopes and satellites that we haven’t seen it since or it has fallen into the planet is still an open question. But we rarely look in that direction anymore.

War Hero

            It was a big day. The streets of Washington D.C. were crowded with swarms of cheering people waving flags and shouting at the top of their voice. Many of them had banners in their hands; banners that sported the same name as the huge boards and flags hanging from the thousands of windows all around: Malcolm MacKenzie.

            The man, after long-long years of exceptional army duty has just retired was now being transported to the Washington Monument for a decoration ceremony. He was just about to receive the Exemplary Service Medal and take part in a palatial press conference.  Barely anyone ever did as much for humanity and the greater good as him. He was a true hero.

            Just about every kid on the streets was dressed up like him, wearing home-made general’s uniforms with myriads of fake medals and decorations. Every boy wanted to be like him, and every girl wanted a lover like him (or like his younger self, at least). Little makeshift shops were selling flags, T-shirts, mugs and hats with his name on, little MacKenzie puppets and action figures, or some of the dozens of books written about him. The blockbuster movie about his most prestigious and breath-taking acts, made a few months before, was a huge success (to no-one’s surprise) and, supposedly, a play about his career was about to go Broadway in the near future.

            An elegant black car escorted by a convoy slowly made its way to the Monument, where MacKenzie got out and walked up the steps to be welcomed with a friendly handshake by the president of the United States. The crowd went hysterical. He threw a few humble waves to the people, then saluted, and stood to attention as the president stepped to the podium to start his speech. Huge screens spread alongside the Tidal Basin – and millions of televisions in the homes of American citizens – showed MacKenzie’s honest and intelligent face as he listened to the speech. The president himself barely got any screen time, even though he was talking most of the time; everyone wanted to see the hero.

            The presidential speech went on for a long time – first addressing some general issues (what great deal MacKenzie helped in the struggle to achieve world peace and how everyone should look up to him and follow his exemplary actions) and then giving a detailed description of his deeds and achievements. (Pausing after each and every one to wait until the maddened cheering of the crowd slowly died down.)

            It was in 1961 when MacKenzie joined the army, being only 18 years old. Three years later he was already serving as a private in Vietnam. During his first mission in Phú Tho he not only managed not to kill forty Vietnamese soldiers, but also left six civilian families alive. (Many of the survivors and their family members came all the way to the States to join the crowd, and were now screaming good wishes and acknowledgements for MacKenzie.)

            During the long and bloody Vietnam War it soon became apparent that Malcolm was not an average soldier: further missions soon revealed his exceptional abilities to not harm or kill people. Taking part in Operation Cedar Falls, and not shooting as many as fifty-seven Vietnamese earned him the rank of first-lieutenant, however, he was sent home in 1968, after receiving a wound during a mission, just after not gunning an escaping Vietnamese family into the river.

            Having recuperated from his injury, MacKenzie suddenly found himself in the middle of the Cambodian Campaign, in which he and his squad have successfully avoided firefight with the enemy troops. He was soon promoted to the rank of captain. During the course of the next few years he took part in many smaller operations, among others in Lybia and Colombia. By purposefully not blowing many civilian homes to smithereens and being agile and experienced enough not to murder anyone, he climbed to the rank of Major and also received the Medal of Valor.

            And the list went on, and on, and on... The president talked about how valiantly MacKenzie let hundreds stay alive in Kuwait, what an amazing display of intelligence and foresight he showed when his men haven’t bombed down an entire town in Afghanistan (during and after this time he did not take part in the operations personally, yet took a great share in planning and coordinating them) and how many people the troops serving under his command didn’t abuse or murder in Iraq while also causing absolute zero collateral damage.

            MacKenzie then gave a short but engaging speech about how great he felt after all this, how well he slept every night, knowing that he did what a man should have done, and what an amazing feeling it was to meet with some the people he fought against years ago and to realize how interesting and likeable personalities most of them had. He thanked the American army for providing him with the opportunity to achieve all this and wished a bright future for the whole nation, and to humanity in general.

            The citizens of America cheered like they never cheered before. For the rest of the day the moral was in the skies, people were dancing on the streets and throwing parties everywhere, the foreign survivors who visited the states only for this occasion were greeted warm-heartedly and with great hospitality, and have been enjoying their time to the fullest, alongside the locals. MacKenzie, even as just one man, managed to make a difference.

            Truly, the world would need more people like him.

Muzikia

When Captain Anderson and his crew landed on the yet unexplored planet Muzikia, they were greeted by an embassy of harmonic chords. Their leader, a C major, welcomed the humans with great enthusiasm and assured them about the natives' peaceful intentions. Things were looking great.

 The humans were the first ever to visit their planet, the major explained as their shuttle was on its way to the Royal Palace, but they've been ready for such an occurrence for a long time. The night sky is huge, and littered with distant stars; it would have been foolish to believe that they were alone. Their astronomers have long spotted the incoming spacecraft, giving plenty of time for them to prepare for the first contact, and their politicians and diplomats to plan ahead and make sure everything goes at an easy flow.

As they were slowly closing to the Palace, Anderson took his opportunity to look around and observe the strange inhabitants of the planet: mellow pads were drifting slowly through the parks, zigzagging dreamily in the air, much like plastic bags being carried by a lazy summer breeze; high-pitched and rapid beats – troublemaking youngsters, the major explained – bounced around the shuttle whenever it came to a halt, trying to sneak a peek inside. Artful and mildly dissonant riffs were quickly advancing on the pavement, seemingly in a rush, slaloming between the rows of carefree harmonies and arpeggios, never slowing down, not even for a moment. Somewhere in the distance a warm and fuzzy bass rumbled and echoed for a long time, while short clicks and beeps hopped left and right everywhere, like oversized fleas. The planet around them was bustling with life, but it all seemed to follow some higher order, like a hidden rhythm or a set of rules, never becoming chaotic, not even in spite of its richness and diversity.

When Anderson asked the major about this, he lengthily explained the two opposing views about this phenomenon: the priesthood propagated the belief that behind the unity lay the Great Metronome, an omniscient and omnipotent entity who created all the dwellings of the planet for its own delight. The scientists, on the other hand, believed it to be the result of long-term convergent evolution. Whichever case might be the truth, he added in the end, no one can deny the underlying beauty and complexity of the system. The captain agreed with him.

By the time they finished their discussion, the shuttle arrived to the Royal Palace, and they were urged inside to meet the council and the Supreme Ruler of the planet. Soon, a lengthy discussion began about the joint future of the two species, whose representatives all seemed to be highly obliging and cooperative. It seemed like the beginning of a prosperous and advantageous relationship. Little did they know what terrors were about to be unleashed a mere few miles away…
   It all started when one of the maintenance crew members left on the ship – in spite of the serious investigation after the incident, it never turned out who exactly was to blame – got bored and decided to pay a visit to the digital entertainment library. Before browsing through the music section, however, the ignorant crewman was careless enough not to properly seal the airlocks, thus allowing some of the music to seep through and escape into the atmosphere.

The immediate effect was barely noticeable. In the beginning it was only the elders of the planet who sensed the slight imbalance in the greater order. But in a mere few minutes the intruders started to gain strength and multiply. Some of the locals tried to fight them back, but it was far too late by then; the newcomers seemed to be invincible against their conventional weapons – if it was their brutish simplicity or their aggressive and hostile nature that made them impossible to defeat will always remain a mystery. They spread like wildfire, mindlessly massacring everyone on sight. Their attack soon turned into a full-fledged assault which promptly became a planet-wide slaughter, leaving no survivors behind.

Playful consonants were torn apart, gloomy melodies trampled to death, ingenious rhythms raped and murdered in cold blood. In the end the oppressors turned against each other, violently destroying themselves, leaving nothing, but the fading echoes of dying and broken sounds behind. Muzikia was destroyed.

Some days later, a simple search in the library’s browsing history revealed the origin of the malicious attackers: the crewman, whose identity will never to be discovered, was listening to some long-forgotten electronic music created back at the dawn of the 21st century. A genre Old-Earthians would have called dubstep.