Science Fiction

Garble’s feelers drooped in the damp air. Her overview of the properties of water had prepared her for the shock of seeing it for the first time-- but not for feeling it in the air. It was all around her all the time, from the moment she stepped off of the ship. Too-small-to-see droplets clung to the ragged edges of her scales and trickled down the grooves, tickling like the unwelcome whiskers of a constantly-inspecting stranger. There was a lot that Garble didn’t like about Earth. But what she did redeemed the rest entirely.

The cruiser rattled. Septus Pertinax jolted awake, stretched out on a bunk. A ring of sweat had formed around his shirt collar.

Before touchdown on Endymion, he’d been dreaming of rooms: apartments in a manor high on a hill, each filled with light, with friends. Each of them toasted him. Each new room revealed new revelers, new hazy faces, and he drank with them in a whirling dance, every cup brimming with easy answers.

Sometimes the unraveling of a life begins simply and quietly. As lightly as the fluttering descent of a moth with a torn wing. A tiny point of light falling in the deep night sky. A moment passes, unnoticed and unremarked-upon; it is only in hindsight that everything becomes clear.

“Not a mark on him, Sarge,” Victor noted.

“You sure he’s dead?”

Sergeant Lemov could imagine what was going on behind Victor’s impassive features.  He was certain that, had the robot been programmed for facial expression, he’d now be displaying a sour look.  The sergeant wished he had been, because then, he could do his own part and ignore it.

“Yeah, he’s dead.  You can sometimes tell by the lack of breathing.” 

Home is...south? Gotta be. Everything's south.

Which way is south? Can't smell it anymore. Damn compass froze, it's so cold.