Flowers

“Papa, what are those?” She pointed to a painting on the wall, a green field littered with pricks of blues, yellows, and reds and a bright sky hanging above.

“Those are flowers, Amy.” The old man placed his fork on the table and stood to grab the painting. “I painted this when I was a boy just about your age. I used to live near this field. Every day during spring I sat under a big oak tree and just watched the world. Bugs, rabbits, birds, deer, and of course, the flowers.”

“So, they’re real?”

“As real as you or me.”

The man handed Amy the painting. “This was just before the Migrant Wars. I left soon after—along with everyone else. This is the only painting I’ve finished and something I hold dear, memories of a much better time.” He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and dreamed of a world full of color. A world full of life where kids just like his great-granddaughter played and laughed. Not at all like the world they now lived in. The world outside was barren.

“You know, I went back there. Just after your parents were born. They’re still there, those flowers. The bugs and the animals too. They’re different now but I think the world I once knew has become something even more magical.”

“I want to see it too!”

“Maybe when you’re older. And maybe your great-grandchildren’s grandchildren will be able to return and live there again. But Earth has rejected man and made itself uninhabitable to us. Yet it still remains so full of life just to spite us.”

Watercolor Children

The woman lifted her brush from the canvas and her face flushed with joy. On the canvas was a boy painted in vibrant watercolors, swirled and pooled flourishes accenting the boy’s soft face, its drying paint bringing the portrait to life. A month of work and it was done. The woman studied her creation, tracing his locks of hair with her eyes, each ending in wild wisps. She smiled.

“Anita, madam, pardon me,” a man said, “your new student has arrived.”

“Thank you, Jeffrey. I will be down in a moment.”

“Is that Alexander, madam?” Anita turned to face him, her smile grew and her eyebrows raised. “I must say, your skills have grown tremendously over the years. It is as if he himself were standing before us. It’s unfortunate he died so young—such a studious boy.”

Anita nodded at the affirmation and her steward returned to his stately duties. She lifted the canvas. It’s time for you to meet the others, my dear, she thought. Each painting reminded of her purpose. Though how could she forget? Every stroke of her brush immortalized those she painted. No longer would she forget those she cared for, her precious students. Not like she forgot her son.

She opened a door, beyond it a gallery. She stepped in and the temperature dropped. Her hairs raised, making her skin course with bumps. She walked along corridors, walls lined with watercolor portraits of boys, and stopped at an empty spot on the wall. Anita placed the fresh portrait in its spot and turned to an altar against the far wall of the corridor.

She stared at a painting sitting on a bed of flowers atop the altar, its colors dull. Globs of old paint marked frequent mistakes. Anita reached out and touched the boy’s cheek. It was lifeless. It was a painting which could not immortalize who her son was and could have been. And so she wept.

“I will get better. I will paint you the way you should be, I promise.”

She turned away, tears still dragging mascara down her cheeks. The portraits towered over her, their eyes following as she walked past. Their presence pushed down upon her as chills shot down her back. So full of life, not at all dull like her dear son. Their colors were bright and vibrant. Why was it she could bring all those others back to life but not her own child?

Stone Soldiers

“For how long have you dedicated yourself to carving these?” the Emperor asked.

Ten thousand stone soldiers stood motionless in perfect alignment before him, each solider an exact copy of the next—every hair, every button, every crease in their uniforms, the details a testament to the mastery of their creator. The image sparked a sense of unease in the Emperor as he walked through their ranks. His retinue followed, careful not to disturb decades of artisan labor.

“Nearly one-hundred years, your Imperial Majesty.” The creator’s face wrinkled as he spoke. “The first soldier took form when I was merely eight.” The Emperor offered an arm to the old man as they climbed the steps to the palace. The man shook his head and continued on his own. His legs trembled upon each step despite the assistance of his wooden staff.

“You know, your Majesty, when I was a boy, I climbed these very steps. That was a long time ago.”

“During my great-grandfather’s reign, yes?”

“Indeed.”

The pair turned to face the stone army and the man breathed in deep, savoring the moment. His eyes glistened as he looked upon his creations. “I climbed these steps after my father. He was a great stone worker too, you know, but he refused your great-grandfather that day we were summoned.” The man raised his staff and struck the ground. The impact reverberated through the ground and a ring of dust washed over the world. He struck again and the air stilled. And again. The world silenced. “And for that he was killed.”

And he struck the ground once more. The world froze and the Emperor stared back at the man, consternation written upon his face. His stomach sank as the earth convulsed. A cloud of dust billowed up from the courtyards below. And the stone army marched.

“I watched my father’s head roll down these steps from the very spot I now stand. Today I will watch yours.”

From Beyond the Void

The red glow of emergency lights bounced off the iron-clad walls of the freighter as Adori held her daughter tight. They were finally headed home, back to Earth. Four months bouncing between star systems. Four months in hyperspace and it was almost over. Supposed to be over. Now every last person on this god-damned ship was dead or dying, except for two. They were lucky enough to escape into the cryo chambers before it attacked. Now they waited for the ship’s autopilot to exit hyperspace just outside of the Moon’s orbit.

Adori rocked her sobbing daughter, stifling her own cries as she hummed a lullaby. Mere feet away, between the thick glass that separated the cryo chamber from the hall, stood a monster. Black as the void it came from and just as deadly. It watched them, waiting, salivating at the chance for another meal. Their only solace was the distress call that would be sent out upon their arrival. Only a few days until rescue.

The squeal of slick boots echoed down the halls. A man appeared from beyond the window. Thick carapace encased his head and blood dripped down his body. The alien clicked and the glass vibrated. The man lifted his hand, registered his fingerprint on the scanner, and the door opened.

Parasite

The doors of the saloon swung wide and Abram stepped in. His eyes scanned the room for his target as he walked to the bar, a middle-aged man with a cybernetic arm—a member of the Scarlet Riders. Abram slid a tablet to the barkeep. “I’m looking for this man. You seen him?” Abram pulled aside his duster and revealed his Hunter badge. “Heard he likes old town bars on Mars.”

The barkeep titled his head to the side, towards a group of five playing cards in a backroom. Abram tipped his hat and made his way to the table. Patrons eyed him as he passed. An old town bar wasn’t the place for government dogs, the locals preferred the Federation stay out of their business, but they’d be damned if they touched a Hunter.

“How much to play?” Abram lit a cigarette and pulled out the empty seat at the head of the table. “I reckon I win, I get some information outta y’all.”

The man to his left stood and kicked the chair away from Abram. “Whoa there, buddy. You think we’d let a pup like you join in?” The man stood a few inches taller and had at least fifty pounds on Abram. Scarlet tattoos covered his face and exposed chest. A little young, Abram thought, and no cybernetics—not the guy.

“Tell you what, you tell me where the Black Rose is and I’ll let y’all live.” Anger flashed across the man’s face as he reached for his gun. “Wrong, choice,” Abram replied. In the moment it took for the man to grab his weapon, Abram already fired his. Dead center. The man dropped. The rest retaliated. Time slowed for Abram and his hairs stood on end as his body tingled with electric energy. The air cracked and the room exploded with light. The light faded and the air burnt with the smell of chlorine. “Should’ve just told me where he is,” Abram said as he kicked the charred remains of one of the men.

A voice came from behind. “Lightning’s a bit dangerous inside, Hunter.” Abram spun and met the glare of his target, the Black Rose. He raised a shotgun but Abram was faster, as all Hunters should be, and the Black Rose fell out into the common room.

His head melted into a puddle of brown goo. Abram pulled out a small jar and filled it. As he stood, he caught the bewildered faces of his audience. Abram paused. “A parasite from Kepler-90 system. Keep your mouth closed at night.”

Temptation

The ship lurched to the side as it crashed against rock. Emil emerged from his quarters and ran to the deck. Three hours. Three hours of sleep and his first mate grounded the ship. Emil cursed as he watched his sailors gather at the edge of the ship, each taking a turn to peer through the spyglass. “What’s going on? Where’s Ricard?”

“Women, captain!” one man said. He pointed to the shore of an atoll. “They’re stranded, captain. They need our help.”

Another man handed Emil the spyglass. Three women sat along the rocky shore, staring back at him, their eyes piercing. He felt beckoned. A sudden urge to help washed over him as he stood there, locked within their gaze. He felt light, as if he could simply leap across the hundred-yard gap to meet their calls. Cheers freed him from his trance and he peeked over the bow, following his crew’s gaze. Ricard and four others had launched a dinghy for rescue. A second group prepped another to follow suit.

Emil rushed to his men, pulled them away from the edge, and cut the line to the dinghy. It crashed against the reef below and split. “Fools! Those are not women. They’re sirens.” But his words fell on deafened ears and the men began to jump overboard. He tried to rally his men, to break them from the enchantment, but he failed. He sat against the ship’s railing and listened. To the song of sirens. And to the screams of men.

Lost Thoughts

Naji glanced at his clock. Eighteen hours since he last slept. He locked himself in his makeshift lab thirteen days ago and made no progress since then. Naji leaned over his desk and stared out the window. The streets were deserted, fresh snow blanketed the city, and fires burned here and there—some to warm vagrants, others to cleanse the dead from disease. He yearned for the view he once knew, before the quarantine, a pleasant view from high in his tower of a city full of life. Now the city was nearly as dead as its people.

He pushed those thoughts from his mind and returned to his work. His desk reflected his mind. Papers strewn across it and the remnants of failed experiments mocked him. They derided his efforts to save them. How could he be so foolish? To think he alone would save the city—no, the world—from a plague that has hidden its truths from the world’s brightest minds. To think he could push the boundaries of science and discover those truths. To think he could become the world’s hero.

Naji snapped his pen as his body tightened at the indignation of such thoughts. He picked up a piece of paper, a list of all known symptoms. Fever, vomiting, hysteria, hallucinations, false memories, necrosis. The list continued. Nearly sixty percent of those affected ended their illness in death. Survivors were often left disabled, their minds gone mad, leaving them unable to care for themselves or others. Man, woman, young, old, it didn’t matter who they were, there was no pattern, no sliver of hope a scientist could cling to. There were no clues to the cause of its symptoms nor the origin of its creation. Yet the world worked endlessly to find a cure.

Naji sighed and cleared his desk. At the edge lay a stack of papers in a box, neatly tucked away from the rest. A scrap pile of work that led to dead ends and worthless notes. He closed the box and walked to his fireplace, placing the box gently inside. He sat in his chair and watched the flames dance. The heat warmed him just as the fires outside warmed those vagrants. The same fires used to slow the plague.

In his hand, he still held a paper, the list of symptoms he studied hundreds of times. Fever, vomiting, hysteria, hallucinations, false memories. False memories. The words echoed in his head as it throbbed with pain. False memories. And he remembered his notes. The ones that contained his answer, the hidden truths that have evaded the minds of the world. The notes that led to the cure. The notes he set aside from the rest. His mind awoke from its delirium and he sprang forth in an effort to save the papers consumed by flames. But his efforts were in vain.

He knelt before the fire for a while and wondered why ash filled his scorched hands. His eyes shifted to his arms and he wondered why his flesh hung loose—decaying, rotting.