At the Helm: A Sci-Fi Bridge Anthology (Volume 1)

by Rhett C. Bruno

  Vance nodded, then jogged down the hall. He stepped over the corpses whenever possible, barely able to stomach the sickening crunch it made when he couldn’t.

  Meter took the lead, sliding around the corner, the floor slick with blood.

  Vance followed closely behind.

  Elektra laughed. It echoed through the ship and felt as if it would pierce Vance’s soul.

  He shook it off and dug his heels deep. They soon found themselves wading through the space slug remains as well, this time more cautious.

  “Elektra,” said Vance with authority, “where is Andrew?”

  “He was…helpful to the cause,” she answered. “Quite ugly but he had a good heart. Literally speaking, of course. You’d be surprised how many of you humans have dark, bitter and useless hearts. We need only good and beautiful things to create our bodies. We will be a gorgeous replacement. So many of you are…vile, ugly, nasty. We must be beautiful.”

  “This is nuts,” Vance whispered under his breath.

  “Bridge is this way,” said Meter, waving a hand in a beckoning motion.

  “Tsk, tsk,” said a voice from everywhere. “I’ve learned my lesson. You will not enter the bridge and now only six minutes remain until another will be required.”

  They reached the door to the bridge and found it completely sealed shut. No amount of force or coercion made it budge.

  Meter cursed. “What now?”

  He was looking at Vance.

  “You’re asking me?”

  “I don’t know, man,” said Meter. “I don’t know what to do. Someone’s gotta know what to do.”

  “All I know is that we’re not getting through that door.” He pointed to the bridge. “If she’s behind the other door, where Andrew went, then that’s where we need to go. We gotta take her down.”

  “So, what, we’re going right back there?” asked Trigger, the panic clear on his face. “Back to the frickin’ living dead?”

  “Got a better idea?”

  After a moment of silence, Vance took the lead, driving the company back toward the door. They’d just cleared the pile of dead space slugs when they heard Elektra’s countdown begin.

  “Ten…Nine…Eight…”

  “What do you think’ll happen when she finishes?” asked Meter, unable to hide his terror.

  “I dunno,” said Trigger. “But I’m done listening.” He reached up and switched his headset off. He could see Vance shouting at him, could even sense the desperation in his voice, but couldn’t hear a sound.

  Zero came and the lights went. Complete darkness. Vance switched on his torch.

  “You guys good?” asked Vance.

  “Yeah, I think so,” said Meter.

  They heard a noise like footsteps behind them and Vance swung his light to follow it. He found nothing and arched the beam wide, throwing it slowly through the darkness.

  “Where’s Trigger?” asked Vance.

  Meter cursed. “I…I don’t know.”

  A spine-tingling scream rang out and the lights hummed back to life.

  Meter began swearing uncontrollably. Where Trigger had just been standing there was nothing more than a large gathering of blood and bone fragments.

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” whispered Vance. “What is this?” he shouted. “Come face us! No more hiding in the shadows!”

  “In short time, if you survive, you will see. You look now through a mirror dimly, but soon you will see me in all my glory.”

  “She’s crazy, man,” said Meter. “We’ve gotta do something. I can’t die. Not like this. I’m getting married in a month.”

  Donovan Vance looked at the man. Really looked at him. He was young. He might have been an S-SEG longer than Vance had but he was barely out of his teens.

  Vance thought about his own wife and daughter. He didn’t need a holo to see their faces. He called them into his mind and a smile played slightly on his weary face. He hadn’t given up hope of seeing them again.

  “We’re not going to die,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  They ran down the hall and over the bloated corpses. Vance tripped, landing on top of a man, dark-skinned, scruffy beard. These had been people. Elektra murdered them all and for what? He scurried to his feet and helped Meter over the pile. Meter could barely walk. The kid was a mess.

  All that remained was the long corridor and the door at the end. Reaching it, they tried the handle. Vance figured it wouldn’t work, but had to try. They resorted to pounding hard on the door.

  “Open up, Elektra,” ordered Vance.

  “It isn’t time yet,” she replied. “But you’ll have to make a decision. I will only take one of you. Twenty minutes remain until we reach the core but the ship will likely melt into a flying pool of liquid metal long before then. Make a decision. Two minutes.”

  “Listen, man,” said Meter, shuffling his feet. “I’m really sorry about this but I can’t die.”

  Vance knew what was coming next. Meter raised his gun, his intent clear. Vance ducked, narrowly avoiding the shot as his squad-mate fired on him. His ears were met with a high-pitched squeal. The gun had been close to his microphone and the feedback was harsh. He grit his teeth and raised his left hand, pulling down on the gun’s long barrel, and lunged forward with his right hand, putting all his weight behind a heavy blow. The impact knocked them both to the ground, shattering Meter’s face mask. Meter’s gun slid away.

  “What are you doing, man?” Vance cried out as they grappled one another on the ground.

  “It’s gotta be one of us, you saw what she did.”

  “We can stop her!”

  “No, you can’t,” said Elektra. There was a touch of elation in her tone. Joy even. “This is the only way. I do hope the one called Vance loses. You have wonderful hair.”

  The unsettling comment distracted Vance just long enough for Meter to gain the upper hand. Meter rolled him over onto his back and began reigning blows down upon him. Each punch did more damage than the one before and soon Vance was struggling to hold onto consciousness. He knew he wouldn’t be able to take the punishment for long.

  Meter unholstered his pistol and brought it up quickly, training it on Vance’s forehead. His hand shook. Vance stared into his eyes. Meter was scared to death.

  “I’m sorry,” said Meter.

  The mechanical click and the fall of a hammer gave way to an explosion. Meter’s eyes went wide. He moved his mouth to speak but no words came out. Blood poured from the gunshot wound in his chest. After staring down at Vance for another moment he fell over, dead before his body hit the ground.

  Donovan looked down to his own pistol, his hand shaking. If Meter hadn’t paused to say he was sorry, Vance would be the one who was dead right now. He took no pleasure in what he’d just done but his squad-mate had left him with no other choice.

  “Oh, a pity. We thought he had you for sure.” She made a swooning noise. “We wanted you!”

  Vance swore at her.

  “Such language! And to think, I wanted that tongue.”

  “Now what?” asked Vance as he lay on his back, recovering from the battle.

  “Now? You’ve won! We told you one might survive. We have decided you will. You will find the door to the bridge unsealed. Don’t try anything crazy, we’re no longer bound by this ship. We are alive and oh, so beautiful!”

  “Is this a joke?” asked Vance.

  “No. You are free to navigate this ship back to all those beautiful people. We can’t wait.”

  Vance stood and hobbled a bit before gaining the strength to move at a quicker pace. He followed the path back to the bridge the best he could remember. When he rounded the corner, he found that the door had indeed been opened. Once inside, he closed the door behind him. He was met by a blinding light pouring in through the viewport. FRTS-1—it was a fiery ball of energy and it was close. Vance began to sweat as the heat from the star began to penetrate the ship.

  He approached the command console. True to her
word, Elektra had unlocked all navigation controls. Vance was free to bring the ship out of danger and back out of the lawless system.

  Back to more people.

  Vance was frozen in place. He could punch in a few commands and be on his way home. Home to his girls.

  But he’d be bringing the devil with him.

  He closed his eyes tight.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “But I can’t.”

  He pressed his hand down, locking in the ship’s course for the sun and increasing the speed.

  “What are you doing, Vance?” Elektra yelled.

  Commands began appearing on the screen. She was overriding the course he’d just set. Vance pulled his pistol and aimed it at the console.

  “What are you doing, Vance?” she asked again with a tinge of concern.

  “Making sure you suffer,” he said under his breath and then he unloaded every bullet he had into the console. Sparks flew and it powered down.

  He immediately heard a pounding sound coming from the other side of the blast door. Something was out there. It hit with inhuman force, denting the door with each strike.

  He spun a slow circle and eyed a door across the bridge. Just what he’d hoped—a maintenance closet. He opened the door, grabbed hold of a piece of piping, steadied his foot against the wall and pulled. It bent but didn’t break. He yanked it again. And again. The pipe cracked and a blast of hot steam hit him in the face. He cried out, feeling his face melting but continued to pull until it was free.

  He returned to the blast door and shoved the pipe hard into its jam.

  “Vance,” Elektra said, “open this door. We can work this out!”

  Vance sat down at the command chair, reached up and flipped a switch on his helmet. The world fell silent. The star was looming large in the viewscreen. The think transparimetal started to warp and melt. It wouldn’t be long now.

  He fought through the pain, his eyes watered and it stung as tears dripped down his burned face. He leaned over and tapped the palm of his hand. His eyes scanned the image, the last time he’d ever see his family. He collapsed into an uncontrollable sob. The tears flowed freely. He could barely see through them as he looked upon the picture. He wiped his face furiously, determined that his wife and daughter would be the last thing he saw before death carried him away.

  He was all alone but not at all alone.

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  Hall and Beaulieu are an author team from Fort Worth, Texas. Their debut novel Brother Dust: The Resurgence can be purchased here.

  Aaron Hall was born in 1981 in Fort Worth, Texas. He has spent a majority of his life writing, finding a love of creating fiction at an early age. After spending a decade as community journalist, Aaron now works in communications for his hometown municipal government. He loves spending time with family and friends, watching TV and movies, and above all else, his savior and lord, Jesus Christ.

  Steve Beaulieu was born in 1984 in East Hartford, CT. Having spent most of his life in Palm Beach County, Florida, he and his wife moved to Fort Worth, Texas in 2012. He works as a Pastor and Graphic Artist and loves comic books, fantasy and science fiction novels.

  He married the love of his life in 2005 and he fathered his first child in 2014, Oliver Paul Beaulieu. His namesake, two of Steve’s favorite fictional characters, Oliver Twist and The Green Arrow, Oliver Queen. They are expecting their second child on July 30th, but Steve secretly hopes she’ll be a day late so she can share a birthday with Harry Potter.

  You can find out more about their work at www.hallandbeaulieu.com. If you’d like to learn about their upcoming releases, special deals, signed copies, advanced reader copies, and more, please subscribe to his newsletter.

  Subscribe here: Newsletter

  LIFE

  BY DANIEL ARENSON

  Neon lights flickered, the last pot of coffee percolated, and even the janitor had gone home when the first photo of an alien life form came in.

  Eliana sat alone in the sprawling office, her coffee mug down to dregs, her eyelids heavy. She often stayed late. She liked the silence of the night, the hundreds of monitors gone dark, and the headlights from the highway outside streaming through the windows like beacons from other worlds. While her coworkers spent evenings with spouses, friends, children, safe and warm in cozy houses, Eliana sought her quiet time here. She had always been alone. She had always been a dreamer. The stars had always been her family, her port of call.

  “It’s here.” She sat up in her chair, and tears filled her eyes. “The first photo. It’s here.”

  Her breath shuddered. She could scarcely believe what she saw. Alerts popped up across her monitor. A life form detected. Data streaming in. A photo being downloaded.

  Her mug fell from her hand, spilling its last drops of coffee across the desk.

  She leaped to her feet.

  “Oh stars, it’s here. It’s downloading.”

  In only a few minutes, the last bytes of data would arrive—arrive from out there—and she would be the first person in the Agency, the first human in history, to gaze upon alien life.

  She spun away from her desk. She padded across the carpeting, barefoot, and placed her hands on the windowpane. Outside, the highway stretched through the desert, and above shone the stars, countless, brilliant, the celestial roads of the cosmos.

  “I always knew,” she whispered, voice trembling. “I always knew you were out there.”

  As tears streamed down her cheeks, she was a girl again, a girl alone in a very different desert, in a very distant country, climbing up the hill with her father, lying in the darkness, gazing up at the stars, the falling comets, the brilliant moon, the Milky Way the elders claimed was the heavenly path of chariots. The war had taken her father, and her life had taken her here to the Agency, but the stars remained forever above her, forever inside her, forever a dream of finding a better world. Of finding wisdom up there. Of finding hope.

  She blinked the tears from her eyes. For so many years, the others had mocked her, pitied her—the woman with no family of her own, no house but her trailer in the valley, no life but her search for other life, for life above.

  But it was worth it, she thought, fresh tears budding. I’ve found that life. I’ve found the hope and wisdom I’ve always sought—up there. In the stars.

  Behind her, her computer dinged.

  The data had downloaded.

  The photo was here. The first photo of alien life.

  Shakily, Eliana returned to her office chair, sat down, and leaned forward. The file blinked; she just had to click. She just had to open it. She just had to look.

  And yet she hesitated.

  How would one process such a thing? How could one prepare to see such a monumental sight, such a fundamental discovery, the culmination of one’s dreams in an image? Would her brain process it at once, or would the photo sink in slowly, breath by breath? Perhaps she should wait until tomorrow. Perhaps she should wait until her coworkers returned, to look with them, to—

  She realized she was panting. She took a deep, shaky breath.

  Just click, Eliana, she told herself. Just look…and the universe will open up before you, full of light and wisdom, full of welcome and comfort.

  Again her tears fell. Perhaps all the hatred she had felt, all the loneliness—the fire that had taken her parents, the flight across the sea, the life in darkness, the unbearable loneliness of stargazing—perhaps it would all fade. Perhaps the eyes of the alien would gaze upon her through the monitor, telling her it was all right. That she was safe. That they had always been watching, that the cosmos was not cold and dark and barren but warm, full of life, full of love for her.

  Her hand trembled on the mouse.

  She clicked the file open.

  And she looked.

  And it looked at her.

  It’s…it’s…

  Her breath caught. Her fingers shook. Her reflection stared back at her from the monitor, superimposed over it, staring back at her, ga
sping, pale.

  Oh stars.

  She screamed and placed her palms against the monitor. But she couldn’t tear her eyes away. Her cry echoed, her voice hoarse, torn.

  “So ugly,” she whispered. “So ugly…”

  She fell to the floor. She curled up. She wept.

  She wanted to rise, to smash the monitor, to run, to jump out the window, to die. To die. To stop seeing. To gouge out her eyes.

  So ugly…

  She lay on the floor, hugging her knees, and sobbed.

  • • •

  Joe was sitting at his desk, reading an old western paperback, when he heard the scream.

  He leaped to his feet, keys jangling at his belt, and began to run.

  That was Eliana screaming, he thought.

  He had been working night security at the Agency for ten years now—ten years of long, quiet nights, of escaping the unforgiving neon light into worlds of cowboys, sultry saloons, and the sweeping landscapes of eras long gone. The hours were long, the job dreary and dull, but in his books, Joe could become a hero—a younger, stronger man, battling bandits and saving damsels.

  Tonight he would have to be a true hero.

  His ample belly wobbled before him as he raced down the hall. Sweat dampened his uniform, and he was breathing raggedly by the time he reached the office doors.

  “Eliana?” he called, wheezing. “Eliana, are you all right?”

  His heart pounded as if trying to escape his rib cage. His shirt slipped out from his pants, and sweat dripped into his eyes, stinging. He stumbled into the office, wishing the Agency had given him a gun, a baton, at least a transmitter to call for help.

  Oh God, don’t let it be an intruder. Don’t let me die. Please, God, I have a daughter. I have a daughter.

  The office spread before him, hundreds of monitors dark and lifeless. He saw nobody. One neon light flickered, and the headlights from the highway outside streamed across the walls like ghosts.

  “Eliana!” he called again, heart thumping.