Bedfellow

The force field had held through the storm, protecting the small hut from the worst of the wind, hail and rain. Morning finally broke with a battle-weary silence and a watery light.

Ruahan stirred on her modest cot and froze.

Her feet and lower legs were immobilised.

Cautiously raising her head off the pillow, she peered into the gloom towards her legs.

Her vision was snagged by the shredded door.

As she pondered the ferocity of the assault to have caused that damage, she became aware of the yellow eyes curiously watching her.

“Food?” The telepathic link stroked her mind.

100 word stories
©KimMagennis 2016

Interview

“Why don’t you tell me about yourself? Who is Mary?”

“I,” the words tumble through my mind. Things I’ve done? No! I am not defined by them. They are outside of me. Not part of me. Not any more.

“Don’t,” that also isn’t right. I did. A lot of times. A flush of shame, a memory of fear washes through my skin. I sweat. Like I did that time. All those times.

“Know,” how I got here, why I did what I did. What I thought I’d achieve.

I look down at my handcuffed hands, folded demurely in my lap.





100 word stories

©Kim Magennis 2016

Farmer

Picture Source www.wallpapersworldbd.blogspot.com

Harvest was always a bittersweet time for H’rald. Contemplating the results of a full growing season was inclined to both gratify and humble him. Looking at his latest crop, neatly stacked in a mere five stasis crates, it occurred to him that it was a paltry return for the expense of yet another year of his precious life force.


Admittedly, the early days of uncertainty intrinsic to Farming had been mitigated by the innovations that New Science had brought, but it still was a personally expensive way to contribute to the Greater Good.


As much as he loathed it, he knew he reeked of obsequious anxiety when the Crop Committee arrived to collect his offering. It was only when all the paperwork had been completed and stamped, and they had expressed their corporate satisfaction, that he was able to look at their official valuation: Fifty thousand galactic credits. H’rald only realised then that he had been holding his breath.


He was safe from the Debt Hounds for another year, with enough to get the highest quality seed for the new season. And enough to let his field lie fallow for the optimum fifty days. Even enough to get the best fertiliser for the transplanting of his precious seedlings.


Ten days into fallow, H’rald ordered and paid for his new seed. It arrived, by courier, in its special anti-contamination containers, with its certificates of authenticity and all its New Science guarantees.


Preparing and loading the seed trays was his favourite part of the process. Each tiny pearl of life was gently inserted deep into the rooting compound, with a single drop of precious ichor, and then the trays were placed under the germination lamps.


His daily visits to the germination chamber were, to him, his most sacred pilgrimage. As H’rald watched the tiny nubs of life crest through the rooting compound, he had been preparing his field. By the time the seedlings were ready for transplant, it was in prime condition.


Although it was not necessary, he always followed the ancient rituals of his Caste when it came to the night of transplanting. He ended his five day fast with a feast of traditional dishes, redolent with the herbs and spices of his childhood. His utilitarian bathroom was transformed with the light of handmade candles and the bath was filled with a frothy mix of modern minerals and ancient herbs. He lay, submerged in the waters, allowing his recording of the ancient chants to draw him into a deep state of meditation.


Emerging from the water, he dried off, and walked, naked, to the already prepared transplanting chamber.


Standing in the centre of the now sealed glassiform tube, he felt the fine spray of decontaminant and anaesthetic on his skin. The thin mechanical arms of the transplanter emerged, making swift their incisions and insertions. A spray of sealant finished the process.


That night, he dreamed of the burrowing of roots, the emergence of leaves, and the fruiting of exotic life-giving vines.


500 word stories


©Kim Magennis 2016

Angels among us

Photo Source: www.hereisfree.com

Anton wiped a marginally cleaner, gloved hand across his dusty visor. The darkness was creeping across the sky as the red dwarf sun sank below the ravaged horizon. His team had managed to locate and recover at least fifty indigenous remains during the thirty-six terran-hour daylight period. They needed to return to base. Night was wont to fall quickly and savagely on Tengri.


Three terran-hours later, the five of them sat at the cramped table in the mess hall of their cruiser. They had all been processed through the decontamination chamber. Tom had cloaked the ship, activated the shield, and was serving up a brown stew of unidentifiable lumps. “The last of the protein mix”, was his apologetic comment.


“Thanks, Tom.” Sarah sounded as tired and dispirited as the rest of them.


“A whole five-day, and we still have not found sign of him.” Gimbol’s forehead creased in frustration.


“Are we sure he was even here, Anton?” ever cynical, Dobra voiced what they had all thought as they had moved tonnes of rubble in their search.


“The last signal came from the site, not more than six Tengri days ago. He was here.”


“Goddam Thorian. What was he doing here, of all places?” Sharven groused.


“He was under cover. Need to know, and we don’t. We are just the stiffs to recover his body.”


“What if we don’t find him?”


“Then we need to nuke the site. Destroy all biological evidence.”


The cruiser trembled.


“Bloody avians! How can they even see us?” Dobra wiped dribbled stew from the table.


“Tom, try the electro-magnetic dampening field.”


The assault ceased.


“We will lay the nukes tomorrow, and head back to HQ before dark.”


They waited for the pale red daybreak to head out to the site. The land buggy bounced across the endless plains of rubble. As with every morning so far, the neat rows of recovered bodies had been removed, with no sign as to who had taken them and where they had gone.


Anton had set the last charge when a high pitched whine penetrated the thick skin of his helmeted exo-suit.


“Anybody else hear that?” Sarah sounded shaken.


“Regroup at the buggy. Now.” Anton’s tone brooked no argument.


Dobra was the last to scramble into the protective shell of the land buggy when the ground at the centre of the search site erupted.


Above the vast cloud of dust a huge, leather-winged avian dipped into view. It appeared to be dragging something from the rubble in its extended hind legs. Moving at an impossible speed towards the buggy, it looked, for all the world, like a fantastic dragon. It swooped down in front of the small battered vehicle, dropping its load, and veering sharply, it flew off into the distant. It took the stunned crew a few moments to register what had happened. Anton leaped out of the buggy, running awkwardly in his suit to the crumpled heap.


“It’s Thorian. Quick. Help me get him loaded. He is alive.”


500 word stories


©Kim Magennis 2016