They said in the corridors of the galaxy, if the galaxy had corridors, that no one could throw a birthday party as fine as Hermon Feyst.
Certainly no one did it as often. A thousand guests, magnificent food, outrageous ornaments, and the orchestra - such heavenly talent, especially that trumpet player who jumped on his chair in a magnifique solo at the end of ‘Happy Birthday’. One could of course argue that they got quite a lot of practice playing ‘Happy Birthday’. But then again, one could be accused of sour grapes. If you were the richest man in the universe, wouldn’t you want to celebrate your birthday every day?
“I don’t think you love me enough.”
Sure, it sounded innocent enough. But if Tag had known how much trouble that little phrase would start, how it would eventually twist not only his life, but his mind, into something unrecognizably mutilated, he would have laughed and shown the girl, cute as she might have been, to the door the second the words had left her mouth.
If he’d had just a little more backbone, things might have turned out differently. But then, before long it was Caira who was in charge of the stoutness of his backbone, anyway--along with almost everything else about him. It began with that one night together.
The Toronto nuke blew about five minutes before the clowns came. This meant that Claudio and Mariah spied the red, yellow, and orange figures at the same time they heard the news.
"Toronto?" Mariah said. "Nuclear?" She'd been messaging on her comm unit.
Claudio looked at his daughter and clenched his teeth. On her arm he could see faint razor marks and her comm still bore the outline of the Dream Puke sticker he made her remove on a weekly basis. They were on the way back from her treatment session: recovery from DP was long and painful. He looked away from her. Long and painful for her: excruciating for everyone involved.
September 18, 2053
Dr. Wenton said I was bound to be the department's good luck charm. I just think I'm the luckiest girl in the world, arriving at just the right time. What a day--and it's not even over!
I haven't admitted it to anyone here, but the only reason I applied for an assistantship at the LTTU lab was because they were new and I figured they'd need some extra help and I needed an assistantship. I read up a little about the broadcasts, but it wasn't anything that interested me too much--who could find them interesting; everyone says it'll take years to translate even part of one, right? Well, I couldn't have been more wrong. I haven't even been here two weeks and the computers had some kind of breakthrough. It's still going on. I'm on a quick meal break, sitting here with a sandwich in one hand and scribbling on the screen with the other hand. I didn't really intend to keep a journal, but this is so exciting I don't want to forget anything important.
Dr. Henderson’s continued absence was peculiar. The man was in love with the alien in vault sixty-two and the second anniversary of its capture was approaching.
Sixty-two was the only thing I could remember arousing Henderson’s passion in the three years I'd worked here. Ever since its craft was found in the middle of the Gobi desert, Henderson had made it a special case. The fool had even petitioned to have it released into his custody for a weekend in Las Vegas during some science fiction convention.
If the powers that be had granted that petition, Henderson would have come back with a marriage certificate.
“They’re just kids,” Donovan said to the Proctor. He spoke only after the door had shut behind them, ensuring that Marshall did not hear him.
“Do you want them to grow up or not?” the Proctor retorted.
Despite knowing that this day would eventually come for all of his students, it still hurt Donovan to know what could happen. To be a teacher is to know that one day your students will learn their lessons and leave.
Mark Allan Gunnells
When the spaceship landed, the President was notified immediately. At first he thought it was a joke, something cooked up by his Chief of Staff to make him look like a fool. The President was convinced that everyone was out to make him look like a fool—the media, the House and Senate, the opposing Party, even his own staff. Sometimes he even suspected the American people had elected him only so they could point and laugh at all his goofs. So he assumed the news of the spaceship must be some kind of prank.
“But it’s true, Ms. Chaison!” Jason Rule flung up his hands in one of his trademark dramatic gestures. “Everyone knows rotting meat just naturally grows maggots!”
“Oh?” Adjusting her glasses, Lauren Chaison pointed at the terrarium holding the rancid pork chops Jason and Kat had been assigned for the experiment. “It’s been a week, and I don’t see a single maggot in there.”
Gareth L Powell
All Pod wants to do is hang with his friends, Erik and Kai. But he can't, not any more. Not since the Clampdown. Not since the Elite looked down from their high orbit and decided to rationalise human society, to make it ordered and safe. Not since they sent him here, to the bridge, to work off his criminal debt.
He hates the bridge. He hates the stinging wind and the crashing waves. He hates the tedious, backbreaking work. But most of all, he hates his foreman, Fergus.
Click for Part One of May These Stone Give Shelter
Sharra stared at the six unconscious cyborgs. The sedatives Samuel had snuck into the nutrient feed had worked. With her technical expertise and biology experience, Shawn had ordered her to play nurse. He wanted answers without the cyborgs possibly interfering with test results or equipment. Being here made her skin crawl even though she knew they’d tested negative for disease.
For thirty years, the elite forces of the American military had had varying degrees of enhancement. Embedded radio frequency tags carried their medical history. Samuel had a portable scanner that was able to read off their names as they walked past each.