"And if I don't want to be a fucking baby factory?"
I eyed the pistol next to my keyboard. I wondered how many of Booth's people I could take out before they overran me.
Booth shrugged. "It would be a shame if you refused, but we'll have your ship to remember you by as we bend space, shift between dimensions, carry our riders to the orbitals."
Booth reached toward the screen. I stumbled backward, half expecting his huge hand to extend into the bridge. He smiled at my reaction and adjusted the camera, then stepped aside, revealing the source of the light.
The door-sized portal on the wall behind him opened along angles that shouldn't occupy the same space. Like the fissure in the installation, it simultaneously opened outward and telescoped inward. It pulsated sickly light. A gray and glistening slick of organic material trailed from it. The discarded respirators lay in a loose pile nearby.
Bile stung my throat. A thousand tiny, carapace-clad legs tickled the inside of my stomach.
Booth adjusted the camera again. He now knelt beside a dark wooden box with a brass funnel extending from it. He slid a shiny black disc the size of a dinner plate onto the box and adjusted a knob. It crackled and hissed, then poured out thin, reedy music.
I recognized the song.
"The others have already stepped through, taken on their riders. It's not painful, not really. More of an orgasmic release."
Darkness swirled at the edges of my vision. The scuttle of tiny legs, the click of mandibles played along with Booth's ancient recording. Then new sounds, wet sounds, joined the chorus. The sounds of flesh being consumed, of organs pushed aside.
I focused on the glowing red cluster of signals onscreen--the discarded respirators--and took long deep breaths, hoping to keep the contents of my stomach down. My legs grew weak and distant.
The bridge shifted around me, became slabs of gray-green stone. They dripped moisture. Cobalt-tinged mist billowed across the deck.
Booth looked into the camera. His eyes became hypnotic. "What do you say, Melissa? Are you ready?"
I clung to the edge of my blood-slicked console, barely able to stay upright. Eyes losing focus, I gauged the distance of the clustered red dots on the map.
Best guess, less than a mile away.
Maybe Booth was right: I wasn't much at keeping a starship in business. But I could pilot one--and, when it really mattered, pilot better than most. It would never matter more than right now.
I could think of no greater satisfaction than showing him just how good I was.
"So tell me, ma evenin' star, do you come to us on your own volition?" Booth asked. "Or do we drag you off the ship?"
I flipped the plastic cover off the console's ignition button.
"I'm happy to come to you," I said, firing the taxiing thrusters. Their low rumble vibrated the deck plates. The thrusters could build up plenty of velocity over a mile. I'd just need to bring the Drake's nose down at the right time.
Booth cocked his head, trying to place the rumbling. His eyes widened, first with recognition, then with panic. The analog media crackled and I sang along.
She's so far above me
I know she cannot love me.
I jammed down the throttle as far as it could go.
* * *
Melissa Li was pilot and captain of the Salamander Drake, a Rapier-class starship operating from the InterLogic orbital. The orbital lost contact with the Salamander Drake on April 23, 2167, and Li is missing, presumed dead. Li previously served as a pilot for the InterLogic trade fleet and as communications officer on a corporate security cruiser. She has no known family on the orbital.
* * *
Sanford Allen, at various times, has worked as a newspaper reporter, a college journalism instructor, and a touring musician. He recently released his first novel, Deadly Passage, bound back-to-back with Joe McKinney's Dog Days, as part of JournalStone Books' DoubleDown series. His short fiction has appeared in magazines and anthologies including Horror Library Vol. 5, Rayguns Over Texas, and Innsmouth Magazine, to name a few.
www.sanfordallen.com
* * *
About the Editors
In addition to editing Mad Scientist Journal, Jeremy Zimmerman is a teller of tales who dislikes cute euphemisms for writing like "teller of tales." His fiction has most recently appeared in 10Flash Quarterly, Arcane and anthologies from Timid Pirate Publishing. His young adult superhero book, Kensei, was published in 2012 as part of Cobalt City Rookies. He lives in Seattle with five cats and his lovely wife (and fellow author) Dawn Vogel. You can learn more about him at http://www.bolthy.com/.
Dawn Vogel has been published as a short fiction author and an editor of both fiction and non-fiction. Her academic background is in history, so it's not surprising that much of her fiction is set in earlier times. By day, she edits reports for historians and archaeologists. In her alleged spare time, she runs a craft business and tries to find time for writing. She lives in Seattle with her awesome husband (and fellow author), Jeremy Zimmerman, and their herd of cats. Visit her website at http://historythatneverwas.com.
About the Artists
For more information about Shannon Legler, visit her site at http://redpyre.deviantart.com/.
Katie Nyborg's art, plus information regarding hiring her, can be found at http://katiedoesartthings.tumblr.com/.
That Ain't Right: Historical Accounts of the Miskatonic Valley (Mad Scientist Journal Presents Book 1) Page 26
