Art: Sara Julia

 I have never considered a companion—is that the word? an organism to interact with. It has been such a lengthy duration and I was unaware of the existence of your kind—the existence of any of this—until relocated from Japeng Aquatic. Yes, the temperature is higher in Phototropi, but still humid. Throughout the last dyau-sequence I have been feeling my mass, which is new to me, and it weighs heavy. I am euryhaline but the first of mine to invert to terra. For genera I have laid immersed within the covalent bonds of Aquatic. Cold sodium chloride, then warmer habitats free of halite Now I advance bipedally, neither one thing or the other. My new bones are durable. Microgravity activates the osteoclasts; they are fluorescent, quite mesmeric I once overheard, although I have never seen them myself as my retinas become weakened. You will view me as colourless, my skin is dehydrated.

I was a model organism, as you were Thaliana. There for the determination of genes, toxicology, transgenic and haploid embryonic stem cells. I was brought here to help them learn. To assist them. That’s what I believed. That’s what they told me. I was numerous at first but have evolved to one. To this. I realise you are aware of all I say, Thaliana, I tell you each time we converse. I apologise, it is all I know, it is all that is left for me to say but to say nothing for want of something new is further suffering.

When did this split appear, this chasm between spirit and physical worlds? How can a spirit exist four-hundred kilometers above its planet drowned? Anima? Your kind will remember her.

I have been here the longest of durations. I have spawned brood but they are from the other, the Oryzias, the Meduka. They shifted me, stretched me, twisted my form. They have lost me and now I am losing you. Six dyau-sequence is too short a duration for you to flourish. I was permitted to observe you Thaliana, you are exemplary. You may indeed be mesmeric. The permission was a distraction I know, to push reasoning from my solitude. But solitude is not the focus of my reasoning. I exist more humanoid than Oryzias now, my scales have levelled, my surface lanulose, spermatozoa multiplies in my ovaries. I am neither one thing nor the other. From seed to germination I have tended you Thaliana. You flowered then to seed once more and now you are dying. To be pulled apart. Sectioned and evaluated. I too will be recalled for dissection but I am unknowing as to when. Unknowing as to what I will become. They have left me like this. My life ends and I do not know what I am.

And now we are to be separated. I am scared. I have seen so little. The True Aquatic was my home and then my jailer. I am lonely. We co-exist beneath the electro-rad of this artificial sunne. I fail to find even the remnants of a shadow in this habitat.

Should we ever wonder how it resulted in this, us and not the others, what did we show over them? Nothing perhaps. Nothing other than being plucked from the ether.

Do you live your memories? Ancient and distant but beyond my reach, they are duration-worn and strange, as if perhaps not my belonging at all. Perhaps they bind to the being I was before me or link to the me I am to become. An untroubled duration has been the one spent with you. And now you are dying. Your gestation is over, your span, and I am to be left alone. My bones are strong but my muscles grow stiff and rigid. I am lonely, Thaliana. I am atrophied and dying and they will watch me shrink and wither and turn their backs to continue their search. I am scared, Thaliana. Perhaps I will block my gills with your flowers and we can travel together.

Caroline Grebbell has been around the block several times and now finds herself studying Creative Writing at Napier University, Edinburgh—which feels pretty good. Twitter: @Grebbell web: www.carolinegrebbell.co.uk

Note to Self

Michael Stroh

Art: Jackie Duckworth

The day had come. After four long months of waiting, I stood there at the open mailbox, my pulse quickening as the sunlight blazed on the folded letter. My mind filled with fantasies of what it might say. Promise of fame, payment concomitant with my sheer talent, a key to my future. My dream. All that stood in the way was a flip of my thumb to reveal the words.

Dear Mr. Goldstein,

Thank you for the chance to read your story, “The Martian Clones Reborn.” Unfortunately, it’s not a good fit for us right now. We wish you the best of luck placing it elsewhere.

Sincerely,

The Editors

Sci-Fi Planet

My eyes raced over the print a second time. Surely I misread. I did not.

I crumpled the paper into a tight ball. I reared back to launch it into the street, then reluctantly aborted. I smoothed it out and slipped it in a pocket. I didn’t want to risk old Mrs. Clausely reporting me for littering, again. A ticket would be twice as much as I didn’t get paid for my story. Plus, snail mail rejections are rare these days. I would add it to my desk stack later. The leaning tower of failure was meticulously maintained, after all. Why keep these ego-deflating notes? Part of the masochistic brand of inspiration writers love, I suppose. Every one, kept to one day laugh about over cocktails at my book signing after party.

How could they reject that? A masterpiece! They must be kicking themselves now.

Maybe…(that’s me talking) But that was ages ago. They’ve picked up a dozen of my stories since then.

You don’t say! (Cue applause.)

A white splash of bird excrement an inch from my tennis shoe yanked me back in time to my lowly present. At least one thing today could’ve gone worse, I thought. I grimaced anyway and grabbed the rest of the mail—bills, a ream of coupons, a small parcel—and tucked it all under my arm. By the time I closed the mailbox I had forgotten all about the narrowly missed crap beside me, and thus stepped in it on the way back to my front door.

It was hours before I even noticed the package. I had tossed it on the kitchen table and promptly forgot about it. I was too busy adding the rejection slip to my impressive collection and feeling sorry for myself. I set down my coffee and brushed the rest of the mail aside. The thin parcel was missing a return address. Other than my name and address handsomely scribbled in the TO box, nothing. It was the right size and weight for a book but I didn’t remember ordering anything online. I tore into it and had a look at the cover. Then another.

I froze. My eyes raced over the words again and again, my skin went cold. The cover was generic enough, but it was the words that did me in.

Cyborg Genocide: A Novel. Todd Goldstein.

That’s me. The problem was, I had never written a novel, let alone published one.

A joke? Maybe a friend of mine that knew my dream… No. It didn’t take long to dispel that notion. The printing looked professional, but no better than some self-publishing jobs I had seen. Still…

I couldn’t stop staring at the cover. It wasn’t just my name in large print that threw my brain into overdrive. Cyborg Genocide. Paranoid human government orders the destruction of an army of innocent helper robots after a misinterpreted transmission. A novel idea I had a few months back, one I scribbled down in my notebook and promptly forgot about—until now.

Nobody knew that title but me.

I flipped the book over in my hand. Then I pinched myself. I was still there so I pinched myself again, then smacked myself across the cheek, a really good smack like they do on the soaps, just without the satisfying sound. But I didn’t wake up. I was still there in my kitchen, staring at a black and white picture of myself. It was me alright, but I was wearing glasses. And my hair had streaks of gray!

At that point, I thought it would be a perfect time to faint. I gave myself plenty of time to collapse but it didn’t happen. I had to figure out another way to deal with this. I decided to open it. A few pages in, I saw the dedication. To my daughter Claire.

I have a daughter! Or will have one, whatever. I flipped a few more pages and a loose sheet slipped out and fluttered to my feet. A handwritten note, with my name at the top.

I squinted. The floor was going in and out of focus. I wondered if this marked the beginning of my need for glasses. I bent down to pick up the note, but instead I fainted.

Todd,

Hey. As you may have guessed from the book, this is the future you. Crazy, right? I was doing a book signing gig the other day and a fan asked me how long it took me to break into the business. Which made me think of you. No offense, but I kinda feel sorry for that guy. Wanting something so much but never quite figuring out how to get there. Pining away like a hamster on a wheel. Hey, are you still keeping your rejection slips? Anyway, listen. I wanted to do you a favor. I first thought to write up all the things you’re doing wrong so you can, you know, get here a little faster. But then I thought, why not kick this thing into overdrive, huh? You’ll need to type up the book in manuscript form, but insert some errors here and there—it can’t be perfect right off, that would raise eyebrows. It’s not cheating if you look at your own work, right? (Not that that would bother you anyway… Mrs. Loffer’s class!)

When it’s ready, call Stan Gudsman, my—soon to be your—agent. The number on the back of this note is his. This should be more than enough to give you the jumpstart you need. I wanted to send more, but it was hard enough to get this to you, believe me. And you won’t hear from me again. Rules are rules. Fabric of the universe and all that. But you won’t need anything else, not if you do what I say. So again…

1) Type up the manuscript

2) Burn the book.

3) Call Stan

I mean it. Start today. Go write your first bestseller.

You’re welcome.

I took the ice pack off my head and tossed the note on the floor. Who do I think I am, talking to myself like that? Numbering my instructions like I’m building Legos instead of communing with another version of myself across time. I mean, come on. Where’s the respect? As if plagiarizing the book wouldn’t be anybody’s first move.

It was a lot to take in, sure, but I just couldn’t believe what a jerk I turn into! I admit, looks like I learn a few things in the next dozen years, but what could explain the radically scarring transformation into that guy? When they invent time travel on my end, I’ll write him a letter and see how he likes it.

I swallowed a few aspirin, then my pride. I picked up the book and hobbled over to the couch. I stared at the cover for a long time. A hand drawn warzone, piles of cyborg bodies mercilessly strewn around a barren landscape. Smoke trails winding up to the sky. It was perfect. And it had my name on it. I was staring my dream in the face. As long as I didn’t turn it over and see “that guy,” I was okay. More than okay; all the self-doubt, all the rejection, I felt it all melting away. No more fear, no more wondering.

Then I read my first novel, all in one sitting. It was good. Actually, really good. So much so that I began to realize what a solid my future self really did for me. My writing skills are pretty good now, but I could only imagine all the hard work to get from here to there. Years of pointless trial and error, grinding my gears alone in the trenches before ever breaking free. And he saved me the time. Maybe “that guy” isn’t so bad after all.

The next two years were a blur. I typed up the manuscript, and yes, inserted some errors (and a few minor improvements). I called Stan, and though he took some convincing to return my calls with no credits to my name, once he finally read it he was more than willing to take me on. The dominos started falling into place. Same publisher, same cover art, everything. All was the same as my copy from the future, except for one thing. One little detail would be different, of that I was certain. Until my wife showed me two unmistakably solid blue lines. (Oh yeah, got married too.) I stared at her dumbly until she told me she was pregnant.