Since the End

Each year, the Mentists sent a war party to the Prates, to force them not to darken the sky and take away the Bright altogether. The Bright was all that gave them light, shining dim through the clouds. Each year, some Mentists died in the battle, but their threat went heeded and the sky got no darker. One year, a charismatic Mentist gathered all the tribes. She declared that the time had come to wipe away the Prates for all time. Doing so, she said, would stop their great Ack Ack Trees and clear the skies.

She led them to the land of Ack Ack, where the Prates lived beneath the Trees. The war was brutal, for their enemy had sticks that called thunder. Many Mentists died. They thanked the Bright that the war was also short, for the Prates were sickly and dull, and fewer than the Mentists had believed. The war party returned home, more bloodied than any could remember, like in the stories of the Viron Wars, and the tribes celebrated. Victorious, the Mentists waited for the mists to fade and the Bright to come shining through.

They are still waiting, if they are there at all.

StarHub Bio #331: Mister Sir

Mister Sir began life as MR-SUR, or medical robot, surgery. Its mission was to preserve human life through application of its medical knowledge and skills. This directive made MR-SUR's experience during the great dieoff particularly painful. Despite its best efforts, the medical robot could not save humanity. It has few memories of the following years. These days, Mister Sir suspects it wiped that period from its memory due to trauma. When feeling maudlin, it acknowledges that it probably spent fruitless years operating on corpses.

Once it recovered somewhat, it found a new purpose: to renew the extinct human race. It hunted down scientific tomes on human reproduction, cloning, genetics. It recovered a large collection of related technology and made some new strides of its own — all theoretical, lacking subjects for its experiments.

When the Hirr occupied the formerly-human planet, Mister Sir knew its time was up. It concealed its trove of human technology and accepted the offer of safe deportation. It now works as a surgeon and general physician on StarHub. Mister Sir insists it hasn't given up on its dream of resurrecting humanity, and it asks all its patience for clues that may help with its lofty goal.

INF Team One

"So," INF-3 said over the suit radio, "I've been reading this book—" "Another one?" said INF-5, and several others laughed.

"Yes, another. I'd tell you what number, except you probably can't count that high." Chuckles carried over the radio at this, too. INF-5 wasn't laughing.

"So What's this book?" INF-1 did her job of keeping the peace.

"It was all about this farm, see—"

"Another expose about exploitation in the vats?" INF-6 had a keen sense of social justice.

"No, this wasn't a news. Actually a fic, an old one."

"Oh yeah?" INF-2 was an amateur historian.

"Yeah. But see, the farm was aboveground, and they grew plants."

"Bullshit," said INF-5. "The farmers'd be killed."

"I know, that's what I thought. But it wasn't about war or anything at all. The crops were just... there."

"Damn," INF-2 said. "Those old aboveground farmers must've been tough as nails."

"Okay, people." INF-1's tone was pure business. "We're in zone. Cut the chatter and watch out for your neighbor."

Radios fell silent. The INF team ignited their flamethrowers and went to work. No time for chatter when the crops could cut a careless farmer in two. So the team burned for their supper.

The Defence Ministry's Solution

"Okay, Doctor Langhorn, tell the defence minister what you told me." Colonel Heathcliff leaned back in his chair and cross his arms. "Yes, well." Langhorn arranged his notes. "Thanks to the Defence Ministry's grants," he nodded acknowledgement to the minister, "I've developed an electromagnetic field that inhibits or retards most energetic chain reactions, leaving low-energy interactions unaffected."

Minister Phelps leaned forward. "In English, Doctor?"

"The field turns off explosions but leaves everything else working normally."

"So, what kind of things does this block? C4?" Langhorn nodded. "TNT? What else?"

"Bombs of all sorts. Nuclear explosions. Combustion engines. Gunpowder."

"This field even stops guns?"

"Most guns, Minister. Some technology is unaffected. Electric cars. Lasers. The, er, rail-gun the navy's been working on." Langhorn smiled. "It makes war — modern war — impossible."

Minister Phelps cleared his throat. "Ingenious. Does anyone else know about this?" Colonel Heathcliff shook his head. "Doctor, I'm sorry, but we can't let this go forward." He pulled his sidearm and pointed it at the doctor's chest. It clacked, then fizzled.

"I may have forgotten to mention the demonstration portion of the interview." Langhorn bent under the desk and came up with a crossbow. "If you'll excuse me."

Don't Eat the Mustard

He leaned over and said, "Don't eat the mustard." I froze, yellow squirt bottle half-tipped over my open burger. "Why, is it bad?"

"You could say that." He leaned closer, and I imagined I would feel his wild beard tickling my chin if I breathed. "Or you could say it's full of toxins they put in there to make you more pliable."

"Shit!" I slammed the mustard back into the condiments basket. "Who's doing it?"

"The shadow government, duh." His breath smelled like black coffee and stale cigarettes. "They own the companies that make the mustard bottles, which leach the poison into whatever mustard these places put into them."

"How do they work?"

"Well, do you remember being asked a bunch of personal questions by a stranger in a suit?"

"No." Anxious, I looked around.

"Because their drugs make you forget." He turned back to his hashbrowns and eggs.

"What else is bad?"

He ticked them off on his fingers. "Ultraviolet light, pasteurized milk, those vape things, and those phone things you put in your ear."

"Is the ketchup okay?"

He looked at me like I was crazy. "Of course."

I sighed in relief and started in on my fries.

Designated Observer Krnthp

"Remember," Grnthk brained, "in an emergency, you can pull the eject cord." Krnthp brained back assent. The aliens had done their research. Their observation suit mimicked the most common human form, determined through study of their picture waves. Designated as observer, Krnthp studied human stories until Krnthp fully understood their society. That exhausting process took hours.

Krnthp appeared in the globe's most important city, and Krnthp began observing the natives. They were friendly. Some asked for photos with Krnthp, some for Krnthp to write a name on paper. Those seemed confused afterward. One group invited Krnthp to go drinking, and Krnthp went with them.

At the recreational drinking room, everyone was friendly. More people asked for a written name and left confused. Several child-bearers asked what Krnthp was doing later.

One pulled Krnthp into a waste chamber and pressed Krnthp against a wall. "Is this a robbery?" Krnthp asked. She laughed, then reached into Krnthp's pants and pulled the eject cord.

She screamed and screamed. Not surprising, since she'd just watched Brad Pitt launch his brain across the room and collapse in the toilet.

Krnthp's last thought before smashing into the wall at lethal speeds was "How did it know?"

Just Chairs and Tables

"Welcome to Just Chairs and Tables, sir." The clean-cut sales rep smiled. "Just with chairs and tables, I presume?"

"That's correct," she said. "If it's a chair or a table, we have it. If it isn't, we don't."

"So, if I need, say, a buffet..."

"You're out of luck, sir."

"Or an endtable?"

"Try Everything Table-Like down the street."

"How about stools?"

"No stools."

"Not even barstools?"

"Not even."

"What if it's a barstool shaped like a chair?"

"Depends. Is it a barstool, or is it a chair?"

"Barstool."

"Afraid not."

"A chair shaped like a barstool?"

"Those're in stock."

"Or a table shaped like a buffet?"

"Just got in a shipment."

"Or... a chair shaped like a table?"

"We have a wide selection, sir."

The customer scratched his nose in thought. "So, what about a chair shaped like a functional Rolls Royce Silver Ghost?"

She tapped the computer. "Mmm, I'm afraid those are on backorder. Would you like me to see how long the wait is?"

"No, thanks. Maybe... a table that is a living person, someone I could love and who could love me?"

"That'd be custom, sir. Would you like me to refer you to a specialist?"