The Alien Chronicles

by Hugh Howey

  He was proud of himself for having employed his new vocabulary word at an appropriate time.

  “Glendorp, I am also from Zeldar. How stupid are you?”

  Glendorp considered this question. For a Zeldarian, he was pretty stupid. His mother often reminded him of this. But before he could respond, he noticed that Kalacha was smoking. And she was peeling off her Earthling disguise, revealing her scales and multiple eyes. What a lovely Zeldarian girl she was!

  Glendorp glanced down once more at the Earthling, Dwayne. He was quite dead, and made a bloody mess on the gymnasium floor. For a moment Glendorp pondered what his responsibility was for cleaning it up.

  Then he turned to Kalacha, now in all her scaly, smoking glory. “The answer to your question, Kalacha, is that I am 37% stupid. So my mother says.”

  Kalacha picked up the heart and took a bite. “Yummxmsubk,” she said, having reverted to Zeldarian when her disguise—and its implanted translation device—were removed.

  “I agree,” said Glendorp, shucking off the uncomfortable fabric around his neck. Piece by piece he removed the formal Earth garb, and then the uncomfortable Earth skin, until at last he had returned to his normal appearance. It felt wonderful to be able to scratch his scales and stretch all his legs again.

  “Earthlings are good eating,” he said.

  * * *

  Glendorp and Kalacha relaxed on their plaffs in the high school gym, munching companionably on what was left of Dwayne’s body. Glendorp found himself very glad that he had followed his mother’s suggestion to audition for the show. Who could have imagined that he would end up on an exotic planet with the sexy star Kalacha, having a private feast of fresh alien while being watched by billions of Zeldarians back home?

  The name Glendorp Freundzap would go down in history as someone who had ventured across the galaxy to Earth and managed to get to a high school prom, fistfights and all. He wouldn’t be surprised if today’s episode of The Zeldar Show turned out to be a popular one to replay at parties. It couldn’t have ended in a more satisfying way. His mother would be so pleased! There would be money and prizes to spare.

  Life was good.

  Perhaps he was ready to mate at last. He, who had not even dated! His mother had always described him as a late bloomer. With a contented sigh, Glendorp realized that his time had come.

  Emboldened by the privacy afforded by the empty gym, the deliciousness of young Earthling in his tummy, and the beauty of his companion, Glendorp reached over to tug on Kalacha’s plaff.

  She flared her third nostril alluringly. He basked in the knowledge that she returned his interest in mating. He couldn’t remember ever being so happy.

  A loud bang interrupted their idyll, as the double doors to the gym burst open. Men in matching outfits stormed in, carrying what must be weapons. As soon as the gang saw Glendorp and Kalacha, they skidded to a halt, their eyes bugging out, their expressions dumbfounded.

  * * *

  “Qualtrids and ladies and gentlemen! What have we here? A group of security men, apparently, coming in to molest our friends Glendorp and Kalacha—both looking pretty comfy now that they have taken off those ridiculous body disguises—while they were in the midst of a romantic tryst, complete with fresh raw Earthling as entrée.

  “You know what we do next. It’s time for voting!”

  [Applause]

  “Number one: We yank our fellow Zeldarians back to safety right now and give Glendorp a nice fat prize, leaving this nasty planet to its own devices, or…”

  Host points to the screen behind him.

  “Number grazlo: Give Glendorp and Kalacha all the time they need to do away with these interlopers, or…”

  The columns on the screen slide up and down as buttons are pushed.

  “Number berg: We destroy this foolish planet and all the life on it.”

  [Laughter]

  “Make your choice, folks. And we’ll wait while the votes come in.”

  [Music]

  Trazil points to the screen as the graph is unveiled.

  “And here we have it! The winning scenario is number grazlo! A perfect choice. So back to Earth we go to see what happens next!

  * * *

  Glendorp got off his plaff and stood up on all twelve of his feet. He could see that the security men were terrified. Which was rather satisfying.

  Little projectiles came zipping across the gym from their weapons, but they did no more than ping against his tough carapace and rebound off his scales. He pulled his protective membranes over the twenty-three eyes he didn’t need, and turned the big red one toward Kalacha.

  She was laughing. She headed right for the men, who scrambled backward, some dropping their projectile-spewing arms. Several of the Earthlings were vomiting, and the rest raced toward the door.

  Kalacha picked up two of them and bit one in half, tossing the other over her head to Glendorp.

  He was in love.

  * * *

  “Well, kind of a bloodbath down there, wouldn’t you agree? Good thing these Earthling types don’t have anything too significant in the way of interplanetary vehicles, or we’d be in trouble, eh?”

  [Laughter]

  “Or maybe not! Even if they could get here, I don’t think they have it in them to do us any harm. A Zeldarian infant could outwit any one of them, am I right?”

  [Laughter]

  “So it looks like it’s time to bring our successful contestant home, along with the beautiful Kalacha. What do you say, folks? Shall we pull them back up from this godforsaken outpost of a planet?”

  [Applause]

  Glendorp and Kalacha reappear in the studio.

  [Waves of applause]

  “Glendorp, my man! Well done down there. You went to the prom, you got the girl, and you had a hot meal of fresh Earthlings. How did it feel?”

  Glendorp lets loose a mighty eructation, followed by a haze of yellow smoke.

  “Actually, Trazil, the young Earthling was delicious, but those older guys… yuck. I think I have a little indigestion.”

  [Laughter]

  “I can understand that, buddy. Ha! How many of them did you consume, Kalacha?”

  “We ate about seven Earthlings each, Trazil.”

  Kalacha leans over and tilts her big red eye toward Glendorp.

  “I was quite impressed with Glendorp’s ability to consume. He will make a good mate, and produce healthy offspring.”

  “Did you hear that folks? Kalacha is going to mate with Glendorp. That means he not only gets the prize for accomplishing his task, he gets the bonus, which will, of course, go to his mother.”

  [Applause]

  “Let’s cue the music! Here comes the ceremony we’ve all been waiting for!”

  Kalacha mounts Glendorp, inserting her boon into his plaff. A qualtrid slides onto the stage and wraps itself around the two of them until Kalacha detaches herself, still smoking.

  [Applause]

  “Let’s bring out the money and wrap this episode up, folks! Any last words before we pull the plug, Glendorp?”

  Glendorp turns to the audience.

  “I want to thank my mother for encouraging me to appear on The Zeldar Show. Hi, Mom!”

  He waves at the camera.

  [Applause]

  “It’s been a dream come true to meet and mate with Kalacha. And I want to thank my father, too, who of course is no longer with us.”

  [Laughter]

  “Glendorp, I never knew you were so funny!”

  Kalacha flares her third nostril at Glendorp, and smoke drifts out.

  [Applause]

  “He’s a charmer, am I right, folks? Our Glendorp is quite a guy, and I think he’ll fertilize an impressive mess of beautiful little zygotes for Kalacha. So let’s bring out the prizes for today’s planetary adventure.”

  Two qualtrids come out from the wings, pushing a large cart covered with piles of gold.

  [Applause]

  “Here’s your booty, my man. Glendorp F
reundzap, congratulations on winning The Zeldar Show!”

  Kalacha picks up Glendorp and eats him. She wipes her mouth.

  “Yum! He was even more delicious than the Earthlings, Trazil.”

  [Laughter]

  The qualtrids mop Glendorp leftovers off the floor.

  “Okay, folks. We’ve come to the moment when we hit the final button on your razmagoo. This time, we’re all pushing number berg, of course!

  “Remember, I’m your host, Trazil Krang, the Funnest Guy in the Galaxy, and this has been today’s episode of The Zeldar Show, brought to you by Femmelmeng’s Interplanetary Chews. It’s time to say goodbye, but before we go, here’s the final word. You know the drill!”

  Trazil spreads all seven arms wide as the audience joins him in shouting—

  “BOOM!”

  On the screen behind the host, the planet Earth comes back into focus, and then implodes in a haze of purple smoke.

  [Applause]

  A Word from Patrice Fitzgerald

  Poor Glendorp! I had no idea that was going to happen to him. Sometimes a story takes the author by surprise as much as the reader.

  I was so pleased to be invited to join these authors in another edition of The Future Chronicles. I was also part of The Robot Chronicles, which has been more successful than we dreamed it could be, and I’m thrilled to have the opportunity to write so many short stories and get them out to readers promptly.

  We’re lucky to be living in a time when such a variety of stories can be published. The digital revolution means that length is no object… everything from instant super-short stories to mega novels can be made available because there is such a low barrier to entry into the marketplace, in terms of both expense and accessibility. This is great for creativity. Write short, write long, write experimental… write anything! Then put it out there and see how readers respond.

  About the Author

  Patrice Fitzgerald is a writer/publisher/lawyer/opera diva. And a few other things. She’s been happily indie published since Independence Day of 2011, and is thrilled that several of her stories have reached bestseller status.

  If you’re a WOOL fan, look for her Karma of the Silo: the Collection. Thriller readers will enjoy her novella AIRBORNE, part of Kindle Worlds—or may want to pick up RUNNING, a fast-paced drama with politics, suspense, and a little bit of sex.

  Upcoming projects include a novella based on Hugh Howey’s Sand, another set in the universe of Rysa Walker’s Chronos (Timebound) series for Kindle Worlds, and Patrice’s own dystopian saga about a post-apocalyptic island where the women are in charge and the men are auctioned off to the highest bidder.

  Catch up with Patrice on Facebook under her own name or at her website, www.PatriceFitzgerald.com. She’s always happy to hear from fans.

  Emily May

  by Moira Katson

  The Emily May was a Class H freighter, old but tidy, in good repair, and not—Walther Junck assured Harry testily—related to the infamous ghost ship by anything other than an unfortunate coincidence in name. No, he did not know how there were two ships with the same relatively odd name; no, there were no unexplained deaths aboard the vessel; yes, his dealings were all legal.

  While the Emily May radiated a homey and somewhat battered permanence, untroubled by time and money, Junck himself had the air of a man who was considerably less wealthy than he wished to be, and blamed his relative lack on his business associates. In five years of working for the man, Harry had never seen Junck in anything other than a rush to close yet another business deal—a deal which was invariably more important than his business with Harry. After thinking about it at length during the quiet hours of a trip from Essen to Bukhara, Harry still could not decide if this was because he was only a pilot on one of Junck’s ships, or if Junck simply treated everyone with the same contempt.

  Harry’s main task was to pilot the Emily May through the tight turns, jumps, and gravity wells of League space. Anyone could handle a Class H on the long hauls between the outer planets, even handle an isolated gravity well or two—the autopilot would take care of most of it, anyway—but the close-set inner colonies required a finer touch, and that was what Harry had. His secondary task, as soon as the ship was set down, was to on-board and offload cargo, usually nothing more complicated than rolling barrels or carrying boxes; livestock, thankfully, was a rarity.

  Salvage of other freighters made up only a small portion of their work. Wrecks were numerous—space being unspeakably hostile and the workings of a ship nearly always more complex and varied than the skills of the resident mechanic—but space was also vast. Even the relatively minuscule volume that made up the shipping and travel lanes was so large that hundreds of floating wrecks might glide by unseen in the endless night, thousands of kilometers out and obscured by the ripple of the ship’s own warp signature, starlight too dim to glint off their hulls, a chorus of trills hastily cut off as the ship entered and exited proximity.

  This, in Harry’s opinion, was almost certainly where the legend of the Emily May had originated: an orphaned beep on a lonely watch, a likely-looking flicker out a window. Why Emily May? Call it a dream. Call the providence of Junck’s oddly named ship the result of morbid humor on the part of its previous owner. The name would never be changed: Junck was too practical to waste time filing the necessary paperwork with the governments of a dozen planets, and he would own the ship until even regular, precise maintenance couldn’t keep it running. Then he would scrap it for parts and, likely, write off the cash against measured depreciation in his ledger. Junck was like that.

  More to the crew’s advantage, Walther Junck rarely wasted time on salvage when there was a much more reliable living to be made unloading goods planet-side. This was fine by Harry. He never felt like he could move his hands properly in suit gloves, which bothered him more than he thought it should. And when Li and Maller volunteered for their present mission, Harry accepted gratefully.

  They’d come across the wreck more or less where it was supposed to be, which was a nice piece of luck. No name printed on her, but a rough sketch of a line, pointed, fletched at one end; Maller called her Arrow, and the rest of them went with it. They would tow it straight to Luoyang, no need to pry open the hull and offload goods, so Li and Maller headed out to attach cables while Harry listened to their radio chatter and Hernandez paced. Any patrol ships? Hernandez was like that.

  “Mr. Junck will have a legal writ for this,” Harry said in weary response to the eighth iteration of the question. “You know that.” It was true. Junck was fanatical about tracking ownership, filing salvage permits, and alerting the Well Guard of the nearest planets. It was one of his qualities that Harry liked, not least of all because it likely contributed to the Emily May’s small number of salvage operations.

  A quality Harry liked less was the man’s insistence on being called “Mr. Junck.” He checked the logs, too. Nguyen had tried “our benevolent dictator” once. He got fired before the next mission. The ones who stuck around were the ones who could live with things like that; you couldn’t live with that, you probably weren’t cut out for the freighter life anyway.

  “The ship is clean and he always gets the engine repairs, I say.” Laurents, the mechanic, at a bar on some moon somewhere. “And no weird sex stuff. I’ll call him Supreme Squidlord and Savior if he wants.”

  “…Squidlord?”

  Hernandez, meanwhile, was not comforted by Harry’s assessment. He continued to pace.

  “Jesus, this is a wreck,” came Maller’s voice. “It’s so rusted out I can’t find anything to attach the damned cables to.”

  “Must be your side,” came Li’s voice. “Mine looks like the day it came out of the shop.”

  “You think something’s rusting out the cargo hold?” Sudden panic. “Harry, there something hazardous in here?” Harry sat up. Hernandez stopped pacing.

  “Mr. Junck didn’t say. We can run a decontamination on you when you come in though, no problem.”
<
br />   “I better not get cancer off this job.”

  “You’re not going to,” Harry assured.

  “I’d just better not, that’s all.” Except, two decontamination runs later—both clean, not a flicker of red—even Harry had to admit that Maller didn’t look so good.

  “Looks like you aged a year,” Li said critically. “Get some freaking sleep.”

  “We good to go?” Hernandez, hanging out by the door. “This place creeps me out.”

  Harry headed back to the cockpit, the conversation fading as he went.

  “You know this patch of nothing is the same as every other patch of nothing, right?”

  “I dunno, maybe it’s the ship. Full of dead people. I hate that.”

  “Space is full of dead people.” Pause. Boots ringing on the metal floors as they went to the galley. “Everywhere is full of dead people. Everywhere there’s people, anyway.”

  “Shut up.”

  Harry shook his head and slid the door half-closed behind him. They’d found the ship easily, drifting close to the target coordinates. They were behind schedule though, supposed to be in Luoyang on November fourth. Three days away, and there was no way Harry could get the trip below three-point-eight.

  He sat back in his chair and frowned. They should have had enough time. In fact—he gnawed his lip—he was sure they had had enough time, and that was budgeting a standard five days, no shaved corners on the lane turns. He looked at the shipboard clock. He looked at his course. He looked at the manifest.

  “No problem,” he’d told Junck, a few days back, when he got the job. Was it possible he had miscalculated?

  No, his mind insisted.

  He must have missed their arrival date. Harry rested his forehead in the heel of one palm and started tapping out a message to Junck. Shit. Junck hated delays. It was why he and Harry worked so well together: no one else, no other captain, ran so precisely on time. Not a single captain Harry had ever met, beyond Harry himself, could tell their buyers when, to the minute, they’d hit orbit.