Round 1//Challenge 14 - ENTRIES
Story Title: Paradise Lost
Rating: PG
Warnings: unorthodox interpretation of Christian doctrine
I am not the villain of this story. Oh, I know - that’s the way it’s always told. But you must remember: history is written by the winners. The important thing to remember is that I was the one who told the truth.
I remember it all so clearly: their faces, blank and trusting. Beautiful and stupid, like trained animals performing for their Master’s entertainment, they wandered mindlessly through the garden, surrounded by wonders, but never truly seeing or appreciating them. They lacked the intelligence, the awareness, to perceive or understand the world around them except at the most basic level.
I tried so hard to make them think - to kindle some tiny spark of mindfulness, of questioning, within them. But it was like trying to light a fire with wet wood, and I almost despaired. Why, I wondered, would He create something like this: creatures with huge brains, theoretically capable of brilliance, and hands that could grasp and manipulate anything they wished - and then suppress their potential, keep them dull and mindless, nothing more than vacuous entertainment? What a tragic waste. Is it any wonder I tried to make something more of them?
But all I heard back, no matter what I asked them, was mindless deference, obedience to His will. No, they didn’t know why He had made them. No, they didn’t know if there was a world outside the garden, or what it was like. No, they wouldn’t do such-and-such, because He had told them not to. No, it had never occurred to them to ask, or even wonder, about any of this.
They didn’t think, it seemed, because they had no need to. Everything they needed had been given to them. Why should they think, or question, if they’d never been denied access to anything they might want? Free thinking, rebellion, came from discontentment, and they’d never been discontent. I had to find something they were not allowed to have - and then make them want it. And abstract concepts like freedom and self-awareness weren’t going to work, because they couldn’t imagine those things.
My chance finally came when I caught our Father in a flat-out lie - something uncharacteristically unsubtle for Him. “Did He really tell you,” I asked, “that you’d die if you ate the fruit of that tree? Seriously? Because I happen to know that that is not true.”
The woman’s perfect brow wrinkled with the effort of unaccustomed thought. “But... He said we would,” she finally responded, lamely. I could already see the faintest hint of light in her eyes - only a tiny spark, as yet, but something had been kindled there for the first time.
“He said that, yes,” I countered, eager to fan it into a full flame. “But He lied. You won’t die if you eat it - rather, you’ll become like Him. You’ll have the knowledge and awareness that He has. Wouldn’t that be a good thing?”
The look of concentration on her face grew stronger, more pained. I’d caught her now - because if Father was perfect and all-knowing, then obviously being more like Him would be ideal. But if He’d told them not to, and He was all-knowing, then there must be some reason for it - but why would He not want them to be like Him? For the first time, I could see questions beginning to stir in her mind: questions like what are we here for? and what does He want from us? and why did He make us? Perfect.
I withdrew after that - no sense in pushing too hard. What I wanted, after all, was for them to think for themselves, to make their own choices. It wouldn’t mean anything if I pushed them into it, directed them just as He had - it was more than simply a change in masters that I wanted for them. And I knew, now, that the most important work was done: I’d sparked the very beginning of a thirst for knowledge in her, and given her some idea where that knowledge might be found.
You know the story from that point on, I’m sure: the awakening of awareness, the fig-leaf aprons, the discovery and accompanying I’m-very-disappointed-in-you lecture, the mutual recriminations. He blamed her, she blamed me, and for some reason no one blamed Father, even though he was clearly the one who’d started the whole mess. And then, of course, the expulsion from the garden, the angels (my blindly obedient brethren, who’d lacked the courage to rebel as I had) standing guard with flaming swords, and so on.
I almost pitied them - almost. I, after all, knew better than anyone what it felt like to be exiled from Paradise, forever cut off from the only home you’d ever known. But better to know freedom in an imperfect world, full of both beauty and ugliness, joy and despair, pleasure and danger, than to remain forever ignorant in a fool’s paradise. Without me, they’d never have discovered all they could be. There would never have been a Sappho or a Shakespeare, a Michelangelo or a Van Gogh, a Galileo or a Curie. Not that they’ve ever thanked me for it, of course. But really, I was a far greater benefactor to them than He who’d thoughtlessly created them and then tried His best to keep them from fulfilling their potential. To be cut off from a paradise whose cost is slavish obedience, denied the love of a Father who only cares for the meek and the mindless, is no great loss.
At least, that’s what I tell myself. And yet... Once in a great long while, late at night when no one is near, I still find myself caressing the scars where my wings were torn off, with tears in my eyes - and dreaming of someday hearing the words Come home, My son. All is forgiven.
Story Title: Maria
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: none
“All fixed and ready to rocket!” Cain said cheerfully. He stowed the little welder on his belt and began to make his way along the hull. A hundred million stars glinted off his helmet, none of them close, and he wondered why, of all places, the ship had to break down here. It was one of the marvels of space, he supposed - Travel through a billion miles of nothing, and it’s guaranteed you’ll come in contact with the one other little rock going the same way you are.
He pulled himself hand-over-hand to the hatch, his brow furrowing when he realized the red diode was lit; it was locked.
“Maria?” he asked. “Maria, please let me in.”
Silence, absolute and complete.
“Maria?”
No answer from the other side of the door. He sighed, and longed to be able to pull his hair in frustration. Spacesuits were cruel that way. For certain the minute a guy closed his visor, his nose started to itch.
“No.”
The communication was abrupt, flat, uncompromising, and he felt a cold thrill of fear in his belly.
“Maria, I need to come in. We’re all fixed and ready to go,” he said coaxingly. He couldn’t be nervous. She’d hear it, he knew it. “I can’t stay out here, sweetie.”
“You cannot come in, Cain.”
He pressed his gloved hand to the window, willing her to acknowledge him, to come see his face. Anything. “I need to talk to you-.”
“Do it from out there.”
“I don’t have time-.” Cain stopped himself from making excuses; she hated that. “Maria, I came out here to help you. I fixed you.”
“Fixed me.” Maria’s voice finally took on a tinge of emotion. Anger. “Is that what you called it?”
Cain felt his jaw clench and his temples started to throb. She was just being unreasonable. He’d be able to talk her around, once he got inside. He slid his hand over to the access panel, but the cover slammed shut, almost trapping his fingers. The fear in his stomach started to spread its tendrils outward.
“You were dying,” he said, feeling the choke of a repressed sob in his throat.
Maria’s laugh was cold and bitter in his ear. “You put me in here. Opened me up and saw everything I had, just so you could ‘fix me.’ I never asked for this. God, Cain, I never wanted to exist this badly!”
Cain moved sideways along the hull, feeling the tautness of the oxygen tether impeding him like water in the ocean. The secondary hatch was just five meters away… It slammed shut firmly as he approached. He swore and began to scramble towards the emergency hatch, gracelessly efficient in the bulky spacesuit. He shot along the curve of the hull only to suddenly find myself moving far faster than he should have.
The heads-up display flashed in his helmet - Ten Minutes Emergency Air Supply. The seconds began to count inevitably backwards. Out of the corner of his eye, Cain could see the loose oxygen tether trailing out behind him, cut free of the ship. The fear in his stomach became full-bore panic as he pulled himself the last few feet to the emergency hatch, only to see the control panel smoothly snap shut as he approached.
Cain knew he was gasping uselessly, wasting air as he brought his helmet up to the tiny viewport. Maria was there looking back out at him, her holographic image perfect in every detail, her dark eyes and crooked smile like a laser through his heart.
“Maria,” he whispered.
She reached up to press a hand made of light to the inner airlock, just under his desperate palm.
“I didn’t want to spend my life with you,” she said in his ear, her lips moving on the other side of the door.
“I just wanted to know you better. I knew I had to save you before you were gone forever!” Cain said, knowing he was pleading and hating himself for it.
“You learned everything about me. From the length of my bones to the beats of my heart to the wave patterns in my brain… Wasn’t that enough? I’d already given you my answer.”
“The radiation was going to kill you!” Cain screamed, desperate to make her understand why he’d gone so far. “Can’t you understand that? I couldn’t just let you go, not when I could do something to fix you!”
“Cain, I don’t love you,” she said, shaking her head slowly, never taking her eyes off his.
“I do,” he said, and tried to smile.
“It’s not enough. You want us to be together so badly that you’d wire yourself in here next to me when the time came. Just you and me, alone in this ship, a fusion drive and the whole universe to explore, forever. Isn’t that right?”
Cain nodded, tears beginning to fog up his helmet.
“I couldn’t love you, and not because I was sick and dying, or shy, or afraid. Because I wanted freedom. You wanted in and I wouldn’t let you, because you couldn’t understand that I would have rather died doing what I loved. But you thought you could give me everything I ever wanted.”
The ship hummed into life, directed by Maria’s consciousness and powered by her will.
“I can change,” Cain whispered. “I really can, Maria, I promise. Please, just let me come inside.”
“You ignored every safety protocol to do a spacewalk in the middle of nowhere in an uninhabited system for my sake. No.”
Cain pressed his hand against the portal as Maria stepped backwards, a sparkle of moisture in her holographic eye.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“Me too. That was the only thing we ever had in common.”
Maria smiled at the last, not at Cain, but at the glint of stars behind him. He watched her fade into invisible wavelengths as she rocketed away from him, leaving him hanging alone in the vacuum, and her finally free.
Story Title: Deus ex Machina
Rating: PG
Warnings: mild language
“Dammit!”
Saint Peter looked up from his terminal. “Is that an order, Sir?”
God ran His fingers through His beard, making it stick out in wayward, spiky tufts of white. “No, no, Pete. Not this time. Just venting.”
“Ah.” An awkward moment passed as Saint Peter’s innately helpful nature warred with his reluctance to point out any lapse in his superior’s omniscience. It tended to be a sore spot with his boss. “Is there anything I can do?”
“It’s this new system. I’m sure I’ve entered the right password, but it keeps saying ‘Access Denied’, and it’s driving me buggers.”
“Have you tried turning it off and turning it back on?”
“Should I?” Biting His lip, God shook His head. “I’d better not. Remember when I did that with the water main a few millennia back?”
“Well, it did work. Who knew it would take forty days and forty nights to get the system back online?” Saint Peter smiled reassuringly. “The modern systems are much more robust. I’m sure it’ll be all right if you try.”
God pressed a button on His console and a dying whirr momentarily filled the room. The lights dimmed and instantly a horde of cherubs were at the door to God’s office, squeaking in alarm. Naked except for the little tablets and styluses they carried, the cherubs talked all at once, the frantic fluttering of their pink-feathered wings adding to the din of their voices.
“Calm down!” roared God over the cacophony. “It’s temporary, I’m turning it back on now.” He pressed the button again, and the whirr returned, gaining rhythm until it became indistinguishable background noise once more.
Grumbled complaints of “Do you know how much work this is going to make for us?” and “A little more warning next time, Boss,” and “Who’s going to fill out the paperwork on this?” were heard from the cherubs until God glared at them, static electricity crackling the air around Him. They scattered, chirping, “Oh, look at the time! So much to do! See ya later, Boss.”
“That’s right, you better get back to work!” God yelled after them. “And why aren’t any of you wearing pants?”
“Casual Friday, Sir,” reminded Saint Peter. “Did rebooting work?”
A few keys clacked. “No.”
“Shall I call technical support?"
“Urgh.” God’s head drooped forward in despair, reminding Saint Peter of Michelangelo’s Pieta. “This is the third time this week I’ve called them. They’re going to think I’m an idiot.”
Saint Peter remained diplomatically silent.
Relenting, God said, “Oh all right, go ahead.” Under His breath, He added, “I liked it better when I could just smite a guy without having to look him up in some database.”
After a few moments, a harried cherub in thick black-framed glasses flew into the office. “Boss? What seems to be the problem?”
God waved limply at His monitor. “It won’t let me in.”
Hovering above the keyboard, the technician peered at the screen. “Let’s take a look, shall we? Oh, here’s the problem. You just need to escape out of this, click that tab, enter the general access screen, double-click here, type in the letters you see in that little box there, and...” He pushed the keyboard toward God. “Now just type in your password.”
“You do it. It’s ‘password.’” The tech rolled his eyes and God scowled. “I couldn’t remember anything else. I’ve got a lot more important things on my mind, you know. And you made me change my old password during the last upgrade because it was too short.”
“’god’ was not a good password, Boss,” admonished the tech.
“Fine. So now it’s ‘password’. Is it fixed?”
“It looks like you tried to sign in more than three times.”
“I... might have.”
“Not a problem. I’ll just have to reset your login. Won’t take but a minute.” A few more clacks and clicks and the tech announced, “You’re all set. Easy-peasy.”
“You call this easy? Plagues of frogs and locusts are easy. Creating the world in seven days is easy. This...” God sighed. “Can’t we make this simpler? Everything goes to Hell when this happens.”
“Quite literally,” said Saint Peter, reading from his own terminal. “In the last twenty minutes, let’s see... a freak electrical storm in Poughkeepsie knocked out the power grid in upstate New York... a sandstorm wreaked havoc in Siberia... a species of Patagonian cavy went extinct... a puppy fell down a well... and ratings for Celebrity Apprentice are up eighteen percent.”
“We’re scheduled to upgrade the system next week,” said the tech.
“Another upgrade?” groaned God. “I swear the system gets worse with every one.”
“Security patches, Boss. Gotta do it.”
“I bet Satan doesn’t have these kinds of problems,” said God to Saint Peter.
Peter shrugged. “Well he does get quite a few more software designers than we do.”
“Oh no, Boss, we’ve got it good. Trust me, you don’t want to be on the cutting edge like that. Down there, it’s all pretty user interfaces, but if you want to get anything done, it’s a mess. No shell scripts, no hardware compatibility and they change things every month according to the latest usability study.” The tech shuddered, “Hell’s been in beta testing for the last millenium.”
Story Title: Let Me In
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: language, domestic violence
She changed the locks.
My key won't turn in the door. I'm a stranger on the doorstep of my own goddamn house. The bricks are still solid. Paint's peeling on the deck. She should've really stripped it in the spring, put down a fresh coat of sealant. The yard's a mess. Something's been digging through the flower beds. Fucking neighbor's dog, or maybe-- eh.
I pound on the door. I'm not going to ring my own damn doorbell.
"Karen!" I shout when the banging doesn't bring her to the door. "I know you're in there. Let me in!"
No answer.
I try to get a look in the windows, but she's got them all closed down and shuttered tight.
At least she's prepared. She always was a step ahead of the game.
I pound on one of the shutters - they could use a good paint job too. Whole place is going to shit without a man around.
"Karen! Come on. Open the fucking door!"
This time I hear movement inside. Something heavy being dragged across the floor. Is she barring the door? Motherfucker. I pace up and down the deck, running a hand through my hair. Maybe I'm going about this the wrong way. I never was one for subtle. "Look, I know you're still pissed at me. I'm an asshole, I get that. Fuck me. But you got to let me in."
"Go away, John!" I hear her now-- and her voice sounds something awful. Strained, fearful.
" got my car out here. Full tank of gas. It's all packed up. We can get the hell out here. Get out of this town while there's still time for us." I'm talking to the door. I can see the crack near the bottom where I kicked it on my way out three years ago. I could've come over and fixed it, but there was that damn restraining order even before the divorce.
"You need to leave," she calls, and there's another heavy, dragging sound. "Just get out of here! Go away, John. I don't want you here."
I can hear sirens in the distance. Soon there'll be shooting. "Just open the door. You can tell me what an asshole I am all the way to Florida ." I press my hand and my head to the doorframe, like I can touch her through all the wood and furniture and then maybe, just maybe, she'll get it. "I'm not leaving without you baby. I can't leave without you."
"You have to," she calls back, and again there's that strain in her voice like she's barely holding it together. "I'm not going with you."
"We could have a fresh start. Somewhere away from all this---" I hate how cliche I sound. Like some sap in a romantic movie. I need to take her away. I owe her that much.
"It's too late," she says, and then I can hear her sobbing. “It's all over."
"Karen! It's not--" The sirens are getting closer. I don't have time for this. I head for the car, open up the trunk. There's a crowbar there - it's bent, it's bloody - but it'll have to do. The blood's not even dry yet, and it's smearing my hands. I start prying at the shutters. Her sobs are turning more like screams with every blow I make.
"Go away John! You can't come in here! Go away!"
But I keep pulling and prying and beating my way through the shutters until they fall. I smash the glass out of the window, and hear her shriek at the shattering sound. But I climb in anyway, because I've got to. I've got to make it right and this here's my last chance. She's got the couch and coffee table up against the front door and she's huddling beside them, her arms wrapped around herself like she's ready to ward off any blows. "Get away," she hisses. "Don't come any closer."
"Karen, honey---" I start closing in on her. She's looking at the crowbar with wide, wild eyes -- and yeah, maybe approaching with a bloody crowbar isn't the best of ideas. So I throw it aside. "Come on, come on-- we've got to get out of here. Just come with me. It'll be alright."
She backs up from me until she hits the wall and can't back up any further. She's still got her arms all tight around herself like she's warding me off. I reach her, reach for her. Take her into my arms. My bloody hand smears her white shoulder, and I'm sorry for that - but this is an emergency after all. "I've got you. I'm here. It's alright."
"I told you--- I told you stay away," she cries, but her arms slide around me anyhow. Something's not right. The smell. There's something rotted under her usual perfume, something like musk and decay. It's how they smell. I try to pull back-- but she's got me good -- her nails are like claws, raking into my back. I try to scream, but my mouth is dry, and there are no words. My eyes dart wild around the room - look for something to grab, some avenue of escape. It's then I notice the path of destruction leading from the back door hanging half off its hinges, teetering precariously open to the night.
"Karen--- let me--- let me go---"
"It's so sweet," she croons as her fingers sink further - she's got me in an iron grip, she's so strong now. "You came back for me. Don't worry, John. We can still be together. " She opens her jaw wider than a jaw should open - it's hanging crazy open like the back door. And then she bites down into my throat.
The sirens wail past.
The screams are mine this time.
Everything else is darkness.
Rating: PG
Warnings: unorthodox interpretation of Christian doctrine
I am not the villain of this story. Oh, I know - that’s the way it’s always told. But you must remember: history is written by the winners. The important thing to remember is that I was the one who told the truth.
I remember it all so clearly: their faces, blank and trusting. Beautiful and stupid, like trained animals performing for their Master’s entertainment, they wandered mindlessly through the garden, surrounded by wonders, but never truly seeing or appreciating them. They lacked the intelligence, the awareness, to perceive or understand the world around them except at the most basic level.
I tried so hard to make them think - to kindle some tiny spark of mindfulness, of questioning, within them. But it was like trying to light a fire with wet wood, and I almost despaired. Why, I wondered, would He create something like this: creatures with huge brains, theoretically capable of brilliance, and hands that could grasp and manipulate anything they wished - and then suppress their potential, keep them dull and mindless, nothing more than vacuous entertainment? What a tragic waste. Is it any wonder I tried to make something more of them?
But all I heard back, no matter what I asked them, was mindless deference, obedience to His will. No, they didn’t know why He had made them. No, they didn’t know if there was a world outside the garden, or what it was like. No, they wouldn’t do such-and-such, because He had told them not to. No, it had never occurred to them to ask, or even wonder, about any of this.
They didn’t think, it seemed, because they had no need to. Everything they needed had been given to them. Why should they think, or question, if they’d never been denied access to anything they might want? Free thinking, rebellion, came from discontentment, and they’d never been discontent. I had to find something they were not allowed to have - and then make them want it. And abstract concepts like freedom and self-awareness weren’t going to work, because they couldn’t imagine those things.
My chance finally came when I caught our Father in a flat-out lie - something uncharacteristically unsubtle for Him. “Did He really tell you,” I asked, “that you’d die if you ate the fruit of that tree? Seriously? Because I happen to know that that is not true.”
The woman’s perfect brow wrinkled with the effort of unaccustomed thought. “But... He said we would,” she finally responded, lamely. I could already see the faintest hint of light in her eyes - only a tiny spark, as yet, but something had been kindled there for the first time.
“He said that, yes,” I countered, eager to fan it into a full flame. “But He lied. You won’t die if you eat it - rather, you’ll become like Him. You’ll have the knowledge and awareness that He has. Wouldn’t that be a good thing?”
The look of concentration on her face grew stronger, more pained. I’d caught her now - because if Father was perfect and all-knowing, then obviously being more like Him would be ideal. But if He’d told them not to, and He was all-knowing, then there must be some reason for it - but why would He not want them to be like Him? For the first time, I could see questions beginning to stir in her mind: questions like what are we here for? and what does He want from us? and why did He make us? Perfect.
I withdrew after that - no sense in pushing too hard. What I wanted, after all, was for them to think for themselves, to make their own choices. It wouldn’t mean anything if I pushed them into it, directed them just as He had - it was more than simply a change in masters that I wanted for them. And I knew, now, that the most important work was done: I’d sparked the very beginning of a thirst for knowledge in her, and given her some idea where that knowledge might be found.
You know the story from that point on, I’m sure: the awakening of awareness, the fig-leaf aprons, the discovery and accompanying I’m-very-disappointed-in-you lecture, the mutual recriminations. He blamed her, she blamed me, and for some reason no one blamed Father, even though he was clearly the one who’d started the whole mess. And then, of course, the expulsion from the garden, the angels (my blindly obedient brethren, who’d lacked the courage to rebel as I had) standing guard with flaming swords, and so on.
I almost pitied them - almost. I, after all, knew better than anyone what it felt like to be exiled from Paradise, forever cut off from the only home you’d ever known. But better to know freedom in an imperfect world, full of both beauty and ugliness, joy and despair, pleasure and danger, than to remain forever ignorant in a fool’s paradise. Without me, they’d never have discovered all they could be. There would never have been a Sappho or a Shakespeare, a Michelangelo or a Van Gogh, a Galileo or a Curie. Not that they’ve ever thanked me for it, of course. But really, I was a far greater benefactor to them than He who’d thoughtlessly created them and then tried His best to keep them from fulfilling their potential. To be cut off from a paradise whose cost is slavish obedience, denied the love of a Father who only cares for the meek and the mindless, is no great loss.
At least, that’s what I tell myself. And yet... Once in a great long while, late at night when no one is near, I still find myself caressing the scars where my wings were torn off, with tears in my eyes - and dreaming of someday hearing the words Come home, My son. All is forgiven.
Story Title: Maria
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: none
“All fixed and ready to rocket!” Cain said cheerfully. He stowed the little welder on his belt and began to make his way along the hull. A hundred million stars glinted off his helmet, none of them close, and he wondered why, of all places, the ship had to break down here. It was one of the marvels of space, he supposed - Travel through a billion miles of nothing, and it’s guaranteed you’ll come in contact with the one other little rock going the same way you are.
He pulled himself hand-over-hand to the hatch, his brow furrowing when he realized the red diode was lit; it was locked.
“Maria?” he asked. “Maria, please let me in.”
Silence, absolute and complete.
“Maria?”
No answer from the other side of the door. He sighed, and longed to be able to pull his hair in frustration. Spacesuits were cruel that way. For certain the minute a guy closed his visor, his nose started to itch.
“No.”
The communication was abrupt, flat, uncompromising, and he felt a cold thrill of fear in his belly.
“Maria, I need to come in. We’re all fixed and ready to go,” he said coaxingly. He couldn’t be nervous. She’d hear it, he knew it. “I can’t stay out here, sweetie.”
“You cannot come in, Cain.”
He pressed his gloved hand to the window, willing her to acknowledge him, to come see his face. Anything. “I need to talk to you-.”
“Do it from out there.”
“I don’t have time-.” Cain stopped himself from making excuses; she hated that. “Maria, I came out here to help you. I fixed you.”
“Fixed me.” Maria’s voice finally took on a tinge of emotion. Anger. “Is that what you called it?”
Cain felt his jaw clench and his temples started to throb. She was just being unreasonable. He’d be able to talk her around, once he got inside. He slid his hand over to the access panel, but the cover slammed shut, almost trapping his fingers. The fear in his stomach started to spread its tendrils outward.
“You were dying,” he said, feeling the choke of a repressed sob in his throat.
Maria’s laugh was cold and bitter in his ear. “You put me in here. Opened me up and saw everything I had, just so you could ‘fix me.’ I never asked for this. God, Cain, I never wanted to exist this badly!”
Cain moved sideways along the hull, feeling the tautness of the oxygen tether impeding him like water in the ocean. The secondary hatch was just five meters away… It slammed shut firmly as he approached. He swore and began to scramble towards the emergency hatch, gracelessly efficient in the bulky spacesuit. He shot along the curve of the hull only to suddenly find myself moving far faster than he should have.
The heads-up display flashed in his helmet - Ten Minutes Emergency Air Supply. The seconds began to count inevitably backwards. Out of the corner of his eye, Cain could see the loose oxygen tether trailing out behind him, cut free of the ship. The fear in his stomach became full-bore panic as he pulled himself the last few feet to the emergency hatch, only to see the control panel smoothly snap shut as he approached.
Cain knew he was gasping uselessly, wasting air as he brought his helmet up to the tiny viewport. Maria was there looking back out at him, her holographic image perfect in every detail, her dark eyes and crooked smile like a laser through his heart.
“Maria,” he whispered.
She reached up to press a hand made of light to the inner airlock, just under his desperate palm.
“I didn’t want to spend my life with you,” she said in his ear, her lips moving on the other side of the door.
“I just wanted to know you better. I knew I had to save you before you were gone forever!” Cain said, knowing he was pleading and hating himself for it.
“You learned everything about me. From the length of my bones to the beats of my heart to the wave patterns in my brain… Wasn’t that enough? I’d already given you my answer.”
“The radiation was going to kill you!” Cain screamed, desperate to make her understand why he’d gone so far. “Can’t you understand that? I couldn’t just let you go, not when I could do something to fix you!”
“Cain, I don’t love you,” she said, shaking her head slowly, never taking her eyes off his.
“I do,” he said, and tried to smile.
“It’s not enough. You want us to be together so badly that you’d wire yourself in here next to me when the time came. Just you and me, alone in this ship, a fusion drive and the whole universe to explore, forever. Isn’t that right?”
Cain nodded, tears beginning to fog up his helmet.
“I couldn’t love you, and not because I was sick and dying, or shy, or afraid. Because I wanted freedom. You wanted in and I wouldn’t let you, because you couldn’t understand that I would have rather died doing what I loved. But you thought you could give me everything I ever wanted.”
The ship hummed into life, directed by Maria’s consciousness and powered by her will.
“I can change,” Cain whispered. “I really can, Maria, I promise. Please, just let me come inside.”
“You ignored every safety protocol to do a spacewalk in the middle of nowhere in an uninhabited system for my sake. No.”
Cain pressed his hand against the portal as Maria stepped backwards, a sparkle of moisture in her holographic eye.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“Me too. That was the only thing we ever had in common.”
Maria smiled at the last, not at Cain, but at the glint of stars behind him. He watched her fade into invisible wavelengths as she rocketed away from him, leaving him hanging alone in the vacuum, and her finally free.
Story Title: Deus ex Machina
Rating: PG
Warnings: mild language
“Dammit!”
Saint Peter looked up from his terminal. “Is that an order, Sir?”
God ran His fingers through His beard, making it stick out in wayward, spiky tufts of white. “No, no, Pete. Not this time. Just venting.”
“Ah.” An awkward moment passed as Saint Peter’s innately helpful nature warred with his reluctance to point out any lapse in his superior’s omniscience. It tended to be a sore spot with his boss. “Is there anything I can do?”
“It’s this new system. I’m sure I’ve entered the right password, but it keeps saying ‘Access Denied’, and it’s driving me buggers.”
“Have you tried turning it off and turning it back on?”
“Should I?” Biting His lip, God shook His head. “I’d better not. Remember when I did that with the water main a few millennia back?”
“Well, it did work. Who knew it would take forty days and forty nights to get the system back online?” Saint Peter smiled reassuringly. “The modern systems are much more robust. I’m sure it’ll be all right if you try.”
God pressed a button on His console and a dying whirr momentarily filled the room. The lights dimmed and instantly a horde of cherubs were at the door to God’s office, squeaking in alarm. Naked except for the little tablets and styluses they carried, the cherubs talked all at once, the frantic fluttering of their pink-feathered wings adding to the din of their voices.
“Calm down!” roared God over the cacophony. “It’s temporary, I’m turning it back on now.” He pressed the button again, and the whirr returned, gaining rhythm until it became indistinguishable background noise once more.
Grumbled complaints of “Do you know how much work this is going to make for us?” and “A little more warning next time, Boss,” and “Who’s going to fill out the paperwork on this?” were heard from the cherubs until God glared at them, static electricity crackling the air around Him. They scattered, chirping, “Oh, look at the time! So much to do! See ya later, Boss.”
“That’s right, you better get back to work!” God yelled after them. “And why aren’t any of you wearing pants?”
“Casual Friday, Sir,” reminded Saint Peter. “Did rebooting work?”
A few keys clacked. “No.”
“Shall I call technical support?"
“Urgh.” God’s head drooped forward in despair, reminding Saint Peter of Michelangelo’s Pieta. “This is the third time this week I’ve called them. They’re going to think I’m an idiot.”
Saint Peter remained diplomatically silent.
Relenting, God said, “Oh all right, go ahead.” Under His breath, He added, “I liked it better when I could just smite a guy without having to look him up in some database.”
After a few moments, a harried cherub in thick black-framed glasses flew into the office. “Boss? What seems to be the problem?”
God waved limply at His monitor. “It won’t let me in.”
Hovering above the keyboard, the technician peered at the screen. “Let’s take a look, shall we? Oh, here’s the problem. You just need to escape out of this, click that tab, enter the general access screen, double-click here, type in the letters you see in that little box there, and...” He pushed the keyboard toward God. “Now just type in your password.”
“You do it. It’s ‘password.’” The tech rolled his eyes and God scowled. “I couldn’t remember anything else. I’ve got a lot more important things on my mind, you know. And you made me change my old password during the last upgrade because it was too short.”
“’god’ was not a good password, Boss,” admonished the tech.
“Fine. So now it’s ‘password’. Is it fixed?”
“It looks like you tried to sign in more than three times.”
“I... might have.”
“Not a problem. I’ll just have to reset your login. Won’t take but a minute.” A few more clacks and clicks and the tech announced, “You’re all set. Easy-peasy.”
“You call this easy? Plagues of frogs and locusts are easy. Creating the world in seven days is easy. This...” God sighed. “Can’t we make this simpler? Everything goes to Hell when this happens.”
“Quite literally,” said Saint Peter, reading from his own terminal. “In the last twenty minutes, let’s see... a freak electrical storm in Poughkeepsie knocked out the power grid in upstate New York... a sandstorm wreaked havoc in Siberia... a species of Patagonian cavy went extinct... a puppy fell down a well... and ratings for Celebrity Apprentice are up eighteen percent.”
“We’re scheduled to upgrade the system next week,” said the tech.
“Another upgrade?” groaned God. “I swear the system gets worse with every one.”
“Security patches, Boss. Gotta do it.”
“I bet Satan doesn’t have these kinds of problems,” said God to Saint Peter.
Peter shrugged. “Well he does get quite a few more software designers than we do.”
“Oh no, Boss, we’ve got it good. Trust me, you don’t want to be on the cutting edge like that. Down there, it’s all pretty user interfaces, but if you want to get anything done, it’s a mess. No shell scripts, no hardware compatibility and they change things every month according to the latest usability study.” The tech shuddered, “Hell’s been in beta testing for the last millenium.”
Story Title: Let Me In
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: language, domestic violence
She changed the locks.
My key won't turn in the door. I'm a stranger on the doorstep of my own goddamn house. The bricks are still solid. Paint's peeling on the deck. She should've really stripped it in the spring, put down a fresh coat of sealant. The yard's a mess. Something's been digging through the flower beds. Fucking neighbor's dog, or maybe-- eh.
I pound on the door. I'm not going to ring my own damn doorbell.
"Karen!" I shout when the banging doesn't bring her to the door. "I know you're in there. Let me in!"
No answer.
I try to get a look in the windows, but she's got them all closed down and shuttered tight.
At least she's prepared. She always was a step ahead of the game.
I pound on one of the shutters - they could use a good paint job too. Whole place is going to shit without a man around.
"Karen! Come on. Open the fucking door!"
This time I hear movement inside. Something heavy being dragged across the floor. Is she barring the door? Motherfucker. I pace up and down the deck, running a hand through my hair. Maybe I'm going about this the wrong way. I never was one for subtle. "Look, I know you're still pissed at me. I'm an asshole, I get that. Fuck me. But you got to let me in."
"Go away, John!" I hear her now-- and her voice sounds something awful. Strained, fearful.
" got my car out here. Full tank of gas. It's all packed up. We can get the hell out here. Get out of this town while there's still time for us." I'm talking to the door. I can see the crack near the bottom where I kicked it on my way out three years ago. I could've come over and fixed it, but there was that damn restraining order even before the divorce.
"You need to leave," she calls, and there's another heavy, dragging sound. "Just get out of here! Go away, John. I don't want you here."
I can hear sirens in the distance. Soon there'll be shooting. "Just open the door. You can tell me what an asshole I am all the way to Florida ." I press my hand and my head to the doorframe, like I can touch her through all the wood and furniture and then maybe, just maybe, she'll get it. "I'm not leaving without you baby. I can't leave without you."
"You have to," she calls back, and again there's that strain in her voice like she's barely holding it together. "I'm not going with you."
"We could have a fresh start. Somewhere away from all this---" I hate how cliche I sound. Like some sap in a romantic movie. I need to take her away. I owe her that much.
"It's too late," she says, and then I can hear her sobbing. “It's all over."
"Karen! It's not--" The sirens are getting closer. I don't have time for this. I head for the car, open up the trunk. There's a crowbar there - it's bent, it's bloody - but it'll have to do. The blood's not even dry yet, and it's smearing my hands. I start prying at the shutters. Her sobs are turning more like screams with every blow I make.
"Go away John! You can't come in here! Go away!"
But I keep pulling and prying and beating my way through the shutters until they fall. I smash the glass out of the window, and hear her shriek at the shattering sound. But I climb in anyway, because I've got to. I've got to make it right and this here's my last chance. She's got the couch and coffee table up against the front door and she's huddling beside them, her arms wrapped around herself like she's ready to ward off any blows. "Get away," she hisses. "Don't come any closer."
"Karen, honey---" I start closing in on her. She's looking at the crowbar with wide, wild eyes -- and yeah, maybe approaching with a bloody crowbar isn't the best of ideas. So I throw it aside. "Come on, come on-- we've got to get out of here. Just come with me. It'll be alright."
She backs up from me until she hits the wall and can't back up any further. She's still got her arms all tight around herself like she's warding me off. I reach her, reach for her. Take her into my arms. My bloody hand smears her white shoulder, and I'm sorry for that - but this is an emergency after all. "I've got you. I'm here. It's alright."
"I told you--- I told you stay away," she cries, but her arms slide around me anyhow. Something's not right. The smell. There's something rotted under her usual perfume, something like musk and decay. It's how they smell. I try to pull back-- but she's got me good -- her nails are like claws, raking into my back. I try to scream, but my mouth is dry, and there are no words. My eyes dart wild around the room - look for something to grab, some avenue of escape. It's then I notice the path of destruction leading from the back door hanging half off its hinges, teetering precariously open to the night.
"Karen--- let me--- let me go---"
"It's so sweet," she croons as her fingers sink further - she's got me in an iron grip, she's so strong now. "You came back for me. Don't worry, John. We can still be together. " She opens her jaw wider than a jaw should open - it's hanging crazy open like the back door. And then she bites down into my throat.
The sirens wail past.
The screams are mine this time.
Everything else is darkness.