The Great Beyond

by A. K. DuBoff

  “Oh my God, Rachel! Are you watching this?”

  “Not anymore. Are you still with Julia and her family?”

  “Oh, yeah. We’re not gonna be able to move forward on them today. Maybe not even tomorrow.”

  “Oh, we will. They’re going to stay with me.” It’s what the me who started the center would have done years ago, and it’s what I should have done that morning.

  “What? You serious?”

  “Already messaged my husband. Let them know I’m on my way. I’ll get them settled in at my place, then we’ll get back to work.”

  “You’re opening back up? You do realize that you’re not going to be able to get anything done, right?”

  “Watch me.”

  I hung up the phone and walked out of the CNN Center. Doctor Carson was right. It was time to stop worrying about why we got a fake grade and should start acting like we deserved better.

  THE END

  — — —

  About the Author

  P. Andrew Floyd fell in love with science fiction the first time he saw a Ferengi try to use an energy whip on Commander Riker. He’s been immersed in it ever since and decided it was about frakking time he wrote some of his own. He lives on Sqee’kra in Knoxville, Tennessee, with his wife, two children, dog, and demon-possessed cat. When not translating stories from his brain to the page, he loves making costumes and going to cons with his family. Though, to be fair, he loves doing that even when he is writing and can often be spotted in convention lines typing away on his phone.

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  RESERVATION EARTH

  by David Alan Jones

  Year: 2021

  Location: Alpha Centauri A/Planet: Belzzrexx

  Clifton Ramsey, ace pilot, expert laser marksman, and chief exo-planetary diplomat for the Trans-Solar Union of Earth, met the alien’s steely gaze without blinking. Ramsey’s set his jaw as he poured on the strength, his impressive muscles bunching under his powder-blue skin suit. His six-armed opponent, a native Belzzrexx whom Ramsey called Bob, hissed through one of its twin voice boxes and groaned a low, sorrowful hum through the other.

  “Your arm is shaking, Bob.” Ramsey forced his opponent’s double-jointed wrist another centimeter closer to the table to emphasize his words as the translator unit sewn into his collar faithfully recast the taunt into a lilting clutch of warbles and hoots Bob could understand.

  No fewer than thirty of Bob’s people had gathered in the station’s bar to cheer him on. They alternately hooted and whistled encouragement and displeasure. Most had money on Bob to win against the puny, two-armed man from Earth.

  “Burn in the heart of your yellow star, Ramsey,” Bob sang using his first voice, with all the gusto he could muster, while his second continued to moan. Owing to the belzzar’s curious physiology—possessing the equivalent of one and a half brains stuffed into their oblong skulls—every individual exhibited what human psychiatrists would consider dual personalities. Though rarely in conflict, the two sometimes differed in their opinions of a situation. Right now, it sounded like Bob’s alter ego knew they stood no chance against Ramsey’s strong right arm.

  Ramsey grinned, ending the match with a decisive shove that sent Bob’s middle right hand inexorably downward. The gathered aliens lifted their misshapen heads to the bar’s ceiling and wailed in forty different voices.

  Bob slapped two hairy forearms on the table and jiggled the bulbous, gray cheek pads encircling his face to produce a sound like sail canvas rippling under a steady breeze—a sign of both surprise and chagrin. “Incredible, Ramsey.”

  “I do try.” Ramsey hid his quivering arm under the table, working his fingers to encourage blood flow. That last push had turned it into a quivering mass of gelatin.

  “I suppose the next round is on me?” Bob spread two sets of arms in a human gesture he had picked up from his time aboard Earth-crewed ships. Though humans and belzzar had known one another a mere eight months, mostly owing to Ramsey’s ability to smooth their first contact, the aliens seemed taken with human customs and culture.

  A dual-voiced shriek brought the bar to a standstill. A belzzar roughly the size of a long-haul space freighter shoved all six of its hands, even the inarticulate lower set meant for disemboweling prey, under Ramsey’s table and hurled it across the bar. Patrons, human and belzzar alike, were forced to dive out of the way lest they get bowled over.

  Ramsey’s collar translator, incapable of keeping up with the enraged alien’s ranting, reverted to one of its original language kernels—a basic model Ramsey and his team of diplomats had used during initial contact. It proved more than adequate to the task.

  “You rob me! I lose credits. All your fault!” The giant’s voices sang in perfect melody.

  No disagreement there.

  Without warning, the belzzar’s middle right hand flashed toward a pistol strapped to its hip, a simple revolver with a bone handle. By mutual agreement, the aliens weren’t allowed to bring loaded weapons aboard a Union ship. Apparently, this brute hadn’t received that telegram.

  Ramsey dove from his chair, careful to angle himself away from Bob and as many bystanders as possible. No sooner had he moved than the belzzar’s gun went off with a deafening boom. A hole appeared on the bar’s far wall. Thankfully, the fool had shot toward the adjoining corridor instead of the bar’s exterior-facing windows with their exquisite view of Belzzrexx Prime.

  Humans and belzzars screamed and scuttled out of the way, some running for the exits, others ducking behind tables or even the bar. Taking a stray bullet might cost a life, but getting sucked into the frigid embrace of vacuum meant near instant death for either species.

  Cold fury settled over Ramsey as he rolled to his feet. What sort of ill-bred sociopath valued credits more than sentient life?

  With reflexes like a jungle cat, Ramsey drew his T-11 laser pistol even before he had fully spun to meet his attacker. He leveled it on the belzzar’s abdomen, center mass, and squeezed the trigger. A beam of coherent blue light punched through the alien’s chest and buried itself in the space between the bar and the main exit with a familiar hiss. The monster crumpled to the floor in a heap.

  A smell of ozone and fried hair filled the room as the moment stretched out in silence. The aliens and humans looked at one another, no one quite sure what to say or do. Ramsey holstered his pistol, though he kept his hand near it in case more violence broke out.

  At last, one of the senior belzzar stepped forward, a grizzled specimen with his silver beard woven with many braids to match his waist-length hair. Bob sank to one knee, all six arms spread wide at the elder’s approach. Ramsey remained standing, his ample jaw set, ready for whatever argument the old chieftain planned to launch.

  “It is unfortunate Felsess attacked you, honored peacemaker. You have our sincerest apologies. Felsess was a fool, and like all fools he hastened his own demise.” The elder stuck out his left upper hand, a sign of peace and fidelity.

  “I’m sorry I had to do that.” Ramsey relaxed and gripped the alien’s hairy paw without shaking for the customary six count.

  “You are triple fast,” Bob said, regaining some of his composure. “I’ve never seen a faster gun.”

  “Wish it wasn’t necessary.” Ramsey shook his head at the compliment.

  “Such is the way of the universe,” the elder said. “A wise warrior seeks peace but is ever ready for battle.”

  The bar’s door slid open to admit a pair of corpsmen pushing an anti-grav gurney. With the assistance of three belzzar, they muscled Felsess’s body onto it and hustled it away.

  Lieutenant Commander Mersen, the ship’s second in command, sidled past them on his way inside, his eyes wide. He whistled through his teeth as he approached Ramsey.


  “Are you leaving us with an intergalactic incident on our hands?” Mersen’s tone remained mild though his gaze roved to the aliens clustered about the bar as if he expected trouble.

  “No incident,” Bob hooted with the confidence of both voices. “One of my brothers thought he could clear his gambling debt with a gun—Ramsey did it with a laser.”

  “Quite.” Mersen wrinkled his nose at the stench.

  “Did you say ‘leaving’, Commander?” Ramsey asked.

  “Yes, I did, Captain. Orders just arrived from the Union. You’ve been stop-lossed, and recommissioned at your old Union rank. There’s been an incident back at Earth. You’re to report there immediately. Hold up your watch.”

  Stunned, Ramsey slowly drew back his sleeve to reveal his computer communicator watch, or CCW, the standard issue technological wonder carried by all humans on the Union’s payroll, military and civilian. Mersen flipped a tiny dial on his own CCW and a new message appeared on Ramsey’s screen: several pages of orders printed in bright orange with the Union’s emblem, a circle to represent a star with nine points of light stemming from its center, printed at the top.

  “What sort of incident rates a re-commission and a trip home?” Ramsey dropped his arm by his side. He would read the orders in earnest later.

  Lieutenant Commander Mersen glanced at Bob and the chieftain as if hesitant to speak, but finally nodded and shifted his gaze back to Ramsey. “Aliens dropped out of the Planck Divide two days ago with an armada of more than a dozen battle cruisers. They say Earth belongs to them, they made a deal for it thousands of years ago, and they’ve come to collect.”

  —

  Location: Europa Territory/Sol System

  Ramsey’s ship, which he had named Silver Sparrow, burst from the Planck Divide, the medium of unreal space that made faster than light travel possible, with a flare of green coronal energy. Although calculating one’s exit point from the Planck Divide proved an inexact science on the whole, Ramsey had long ago mastered what he could of the technique. His calculations placed Silver Sparrow less than twenty thousand kilometers from the space station, Bujold, in orbit of Jupiter’s moon Europa.

  A new message alarm sounded the instant Ramsey arrived. He toggled the playback switch and worked the decryption dial on his computer board until a deep voice resonated through the cockpit.

  “Captain Clifton Ramsey, this is Admiral Leeds, flag commander of battle group Tiberius, speaking to you via recorded message. Although your previous orders instructed you to report to Bujold station, matters in the Sol System have worsened considerably. Your expertise is needed at Earth posthaste. Rendezvous with the TSU Unsullied immediately to receive a critical briefing and meet your assigned diplomatic partner.”

  The message paused for five seconds before repeating. Ramsey, his brow knitted, switched it off.

  Partner? Never in sixteen years of service as an exo-diplomat had the Union saddled him with a sidekick. Of course, the Sol system had never faced this sort of threat before. Perhaps the governing council wanted one of their green diplomatic corps officers to learn from a proven expert. Magnanimous to a fault, Ramsey considered it a fine idea. He would do the same in their place. Considering how seldom he returned to Earth space these days, it might be years before they got this chance again. But the kid had better stay quiet and melt into the background or there would be trouble. This mission could mean devastating losses for the human race if things got hairy.

  Earth simply wasn’t prepared for a fight.

  Though humanity had begun plumbing the stars forty-five years ago after the discovery of the Planck Divide in 1976, infrastructural and resource limitations had precluded building a large standing space navy. With a mere six battleships and perhaps a dozen lightly armed frigates at their disposal, they possessed little by way of defense. The war hawks in the Union’s parliament were probably crowing over their past demands for a heavy military buildup, not that it would make a bit of difference at this point.

  Now was the time for diplomacy, and that was Ramsey’s department. He just hoped whatever effete academician they saddled him with would stay out of his way and let him do his job.

  —

  Location: Earth Orbit/Sol System

  Ramsey toggled three switches in precise order to trigger his ship’s automatic docking sequence with the TSU Unsullied. He preferred performing these sorts of tasks by hand, but the Navy insisted all ships couple by computer. Foolish. If they weren’t careful, humanity would one day find themselves bereft of all the skills that made a man useful.

  A thrum quivered through Silver Sparrow, indicating a successful mating of the two ships. Ramsey undogged the safety latches on the port side hatch and spun the stopcock to equalize the pressure between his side and the other. Air hissed as the door swung lazily open to reveal a short, paunchy man dressed in an admiral’s uniform standing next to one of the most beautiful women Ramsey had ever seen.

  He should know, he had seen her before.

  “Captain Ramsey.” Admiral Leeds extended a hand, which Ramsey shook with all the attention of an automaton. “I believe you already know Colonel Gabrielle McGovern?”

  “Colonel, is it?” Ramsey tried to act natural as he shook Gabrielle’s hand, though he couldn’t suppress the torrent of old memories threatening to overwhelm his senses.

  “Some of us work to get promoted, Clifton.” Gabrielle’s voice sounded as cool and alluring as ever. Even dressed in a service uniform—black coat, starched white shirt, and knee-length skirt—her athletic figure showed through to good effect.

  Ramsey grinned, resolutely keeping his eyes on his ex-fiancée’s face. It had been three years, two months, and four days since they had broken off their engagement—since she had chosen her career over him—and though he had tried to put her out of his mind by throwing himself into his work, not a week went by when he didn’t think of Gabrielle.

  “How long has it been?” he asked with what he consider perfect nonchalance.

  Her lips curled. “Not so long you can fool me, Clifton.”

  Ramsey hoped his return smile hid the sudden flush of guilt and agreement coursing through his veins. She did know him—she knew he still had it bad for her—and she was enjoying the hell out of it.

  Women, you couldn’t live with them, and you couldn’t shoot them with your T-11.

  Admiral Leeds, his gaze flitting between them, looked like a man becoming suddenly aware of a game he hadn’t meant to join. He cleared his throat and placed a hand on Ramsey’s back to lead him onto the Unsullied.

  “I’m afraid time is short,” he said, guiding Ramsey along the corridor. “Colonel McGovern is here to brief you. She has clocked more hours with the aliens than any other human.”

  They entered an austere, windowless meeting room furnished with a small table and five chairs. Ramsey made to pull one of the chairs for Gabrielle, but she pretended not to notice and took a seat across from him and Admiral Leeds. She withdrew a manila folder from a locked satchel she carried and opened it on the desk.

  The first document inside, marked TOP SECRET//SPECIAL HANDLING//ORIGINATOR CONTROLLED, showed a high-definition image of an insect-like alien on military-grade film. Wasp-waisted and sporting six limbs, two of which it used to stand upright, the creature looked like a cross between a bumble bee and a hornet. Its exoskeleton was mostly black, but contrasted by symmetrical patterns of bright yellow that ranged over every part of its body. Though it wore clothes, they appeared more utilitarian than designed for modesty. A silver belt covered in pockets hung low over its hips. A second one, strapped diagonally across its thorax, passed under its lower set of arms. Neither accessory obstructed the creature’s doubled, irregularly sectioned wings.

  “They call themselves the Pluhron.” Gabrielle stabbed a manicured nail at the picture. “That one is named High Armored Attack Wing Commander Mezzrel.”

  “A handsome fellow,” Ramsey quipped.

  “She is not a fellow. In fact, so far
as we can tell from the few interactions our people have had with the Pluhron, they are all female.”

  Ramsey sat up straight in his seat. “Is that possible? How do they procreate?”

  Gabrielle tilted her head to one side. “Not exactly the most pressing question on our agenda at the moment. They have twelve battle ships orbiting Earth. I doubt making babies is a problem.”

  “Point.” Ramsey dipped his chin to acknowledge her logic.

  “That is partly why we’ve asked Colonel McGovern to accompany you on this mission.” Admiral Leeds tossed a hand Gabrielle’s way. “She knows the enemy.”

  “You’re the sidekick?” Ramsey winced the instant the words left his mouth.

  Gabrielle narrowed her eyes. “I am humanity’s leading expert on the Pluhron. The only reason they haven’t begun sending drop ships to begin clearing the surface is because of my negotiations with them. If either of us is a sidekick, Clifton, it’s you.”

  “At ease.” Admiral Leeds waved a hand in the air like a mother admonishing bickering children. “You both bring unique skill sets to this situation. That’s why the Union teamed you up. Show a little maturity and remember what’s at stake here.”

  “Yes, sir,” Ramsey and Gabrielle said in unison.

  Looking no more contrite than before, Gabrielle flipped to the next page in her dossier. This one bore a block of tightly spaced text, the sort Ramsey had seen in a thousand military briefs.

  “From what we’ve gathered, the Pluhron are extremely long-lived beings. Commander Mezzrel claims to be more than three thousand years old, and that she is middle-aged for their species. I’ve confirmed this with her on three separate occasions, to the point she became testy with me the last time I asked. Information we’ve gathered from allies likewise attests to the Pluhrons’ longevity, and their rather peculiar mating cycle.”

  Ramsey lifted an eyebrow. “Peculiar how?”

  “The exact details are sketchy, but if intelligence reports we’ve received are correct, the Pluhron mate in species-wide cycles of about two to three hundred years. During mating and child rearing, the adults revert to a far less sentient state to raise their offspring.”