Read Online Bastion Science Fiction Magazine - Issue 4, July 2014 by Alex Hernandez George S. Walker Eleanor R. Wood Robert Quinlivan Peter Medeiros Hannah Goodwin R. Leigh Hennig - Free Book Online Page A
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the turbines are still spooky. The spectral remains of the planet's dead blowing like silent wind through the tunnels.
I tucked my fingers in my armpits and watched Lorena put on the headphones. She opened the box and unfolded a long black microphone. There was a tiny control panel inside the box, a device not unlike a miniature soundboard. She stood very close to the turbine, and for a moment I was scared a sleeve or the bottom of her jacket might get caught and tug in her. She twisted a couple of knobs and held out the box. When she spoke, I was scared for a whole different reason.
"Clifford," she said. "Clifford, can you hear me?" A pause. When Dr. Hannish spoke again, her voice trembled. She was no longer the compact, cantankerous mad scientist who defended her work from so-called ‘Spiritualists’ in interviews. She sounded afraid. "I know, I know we said we wouldn't do this… No, it's just me. Well, and the driver. Heh… It's nephritis, Clifford. The doctor is talking about dialysis, but I am so tired. You know, it's not fair. We were the ones who figured it out. They billed us as geniuses, and here I am reduced to the same stupid questions as anybody. Can you tell me…is it going to hurt? Am I still going to be me?"
I backed away from Dr. Hannish until the purr of other turbines on the roof drowned out the sound of her voice. I didn't need to hear this. From the roof of the plant, I could see little Wiscasset shining a few miles away. No one turns off the lights any more. No reason to. The spiritual residue never diminishes, never goes still.
Sometime later, I couldn't say when, the doctor touched me on the shoulder. She was ready to go. I went down the ladder before Dr. Hannish. I was sure she was going to fall.
I'd left the car running. Once we were back on the highway I asked, "What did he say?"
Dr. Hannish's voice was dry, stripped of the impatience I'd always known from her. "He said it doesn't hurt. It's not the Elysian Fields, but it feels right , he said, even if you can't quite stop moving around. He said it makes everything before feel like…practice."
She got a flight back to Florida the next morning. It was only when I came back to the car that I saw she'd left her box in the front seat. It was surprisingly light in my hands, like it was made of leaves. I jammed it back under the seat and pulled onto the Pike and wondered if there was anybody I wanted to hear.
###
Peter Medeiros is only employed in the most disreputable of professions: he is a writer, a teacher, and a barista. He lives in Somerville, Massachusetts. Most recently, his work has been featured in Spark IV in January, and July's issue of Outposts of Beyond .
Remember Prometheus
Eleanor R. Wood
Damian inhaled the aroma of coffee to calm his nerves. He had arrived at The Roasted Bean well before he was due to meet Anna. It was their favourite haunt, and had hardly changed in the years since he last sat here. The walls were a different shade–less terracotta, more burgundy–and the once-trendy, iron-backed chairs had been replaced with ultra-ergonomic memory cushioned seats, but the layout was the same and the menu had hardly altered. For the first time since he rejoined the world, Damian could pretend no time had passed.
They hadn’t yet seen each other since his return the week before. He knew why Anna hadn’t been there when he awoke, but her absence still stung. Her phobia prevented her from facing his pale, clammy form as he was brought back from the cold, just as it had prevented her from accompanying him to the Institute on the day he was frozen.
He tried to quell his anxiety with two cups of coffee while he waited, but the caffeine rush only increased his anticipation at seeing her face again. Would he recognise her after eight years? She would have aged a little. She might have changed her hair, and the clothes she used to favour were surely out of fashion now. The bell on the shop door tinkled.
I tucked my fingers in my armpits and watched Lorena put on the headphones. She opened the box and unfolded a long black microphone. There was a tiny control panel inside the box, a device not unlike a miniature soundboard. She stood very close to the turbine, and for a moment I was scared a sleeve or the bottom of her jacket might get caught and tug in her. She twisted a couple of knobs and held out the box. When she spoke, I was scared for a whole different reason.
"Clifford," she said. "Clifford, can you hear me?" A pause. When Dr. Hannish spoke again, her voice trembled. She was no longer the compact, cantankerous mad scientist who defended her work from so-called ‘Spiritualists’ in interviews. She sounded afraid. "I know, I know we said we wouldn't do this… No, it's just me. Well, and the driver. Heh… It's nephritis, Clifford. The doctor is talking about dialysis, but I am so tired. You know, it's not fair. We were the ones who figured it out. They billed us as geniuses, and here I am reduced to the same stupid questions as anybody. Can you tell me…is it going to hurt? Am I still going to be me?"
I backed away from Dr. Hannish until the purr of other turbines on the roof drowned out the sound of her voice. I didn't need to hear this. From the roof of the plant, I could see little Wiscasset shining a few miles away. No one turns off the lights any more. No reason to. The spiritual residue never diminishes, never goes still.
Sometime later, I couldn't say when, the doctor touched me on the shoulder. She was ready to go. I went down the ladder before Dr. Hannish. I was sure she was going to fall.
I'd left the car running. Once we were back on the highway I asked, "What did he say?"
Dr. Hannish's voice was dry, stripped of the impatience I'd always known from her. "He said it doesn't hurt. It's not the Elysian Fields, but it feels right , he said, even if you can't quite stop moving around. He said it makes everything before feel like…practice."
She got a flight back to Florida the next morning. It was only when I came back to the car that I saw she'd left her box in the front seat. It was surprisingly light in my hands, like it was made of leaves. I jammed it back under the seat and pulled onto the Pike and wondered if there was anybody I wanted to hear.
###
Peter Medeiros is only employed in the most disreputable of professions: he is a writer, a teacher, and a barista. He lives in Somerville, Massachusetts. Most recently, his work has been featured in Spark IV in January, and July's issue of Outposts of Beyond .
Remember Prometheus
Eleanor R. Wood
Damian inhaled the aroma of coffee to calm his nerves. He had arrived at The Roasted Bean well before he was due to meet Anna. It was their favourite haunt, and had hardly changed in the years since he last sat here. The walls were a different shade–less terracotta, more burgundy–and the once-trendy, iron-backed chairs had been replaced with ultra-ergonomic memory cushioned seats, but the layout was the same and the menu had hardly altered. For the first time since he rejoined the world, Damian could pretend no time had passed.
They hadn’t yet seen each other since his return the week before. He knew why Anna hadn’t been there when he awoke, but her absence still stung. Her phobia prevented her from facing his pale, clammy form as he was brought back from the cold, just as it had prevented her from accompanying him to the Institute on the day he was frozen.
He tried to quell his anxiety with two cups of coffee while he waited, but the caffeine rush only increased his anticipation at seeing her face again. Would he recognise her after eight years? She would have aged a little. She might have changed her hair, and the clothes she used to favour were surely out of fashion now. The bell on the shop door tinkled.
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