The Circle of Champions, the winners of my monthly writing contests, bring forth another great Sci Fi story collaboration. This week, Glenn R. Frank continues the story begun by Jim Hamilton and jumps things into high gear.
The Pyramid
Part 1 by Jim Hamilton
At 2:27 p.m., on an otherwise unremarkable Friday afternoon, The Pyramid shimmered into being only 17.2 miles northwest of downtown Las Vegas. Fully a mile on a side and rising 4,000 feet above the desert landscape, it was impossible to miss.
By 2:37 p.m., hundreds of videos of it were already trending on every social media platform and two local news stations were transmitting raw footage as their helicopters flew towards it. Already, millions of people around the globe were beginning to endlessly speculate—each wanting to be the first to successfully guess the whys and wherefores of The Pyramid.
Two thousand miles to the east–2,095 miles to be exact–the U.S. president was holding a meeting in the Oval Office when the head of her security detail opened the door and said, “Madame President, I need for you to come with me right now. Protocol seven.”
Surprised at the sudden interruption, she immediately arose while apologizing, “Gentlemen, I’m afraid that you’ll have to excuse me.” She quickly followed the Secret Service agent out of the room and down the hall to the elevator.
As the car made its descent deep underground, the agent handed her a tablet. “You need to see this, ma’am.”
“What am I looking at?” she asked, as she watched the news video.
The chyron was too small to make out.
“It’s a giant pyramid, ma’am. It appeared about fifteen minutes ago outside Las Vegas.”
The elevator bell dinged and the doors parted. The President strode into the Situation Room and stood for a moment, studying the displays before addressing the Officer of the Day. “Status report!”
“Yes, ma’am. As you can see from the various video feeds, a large pyramid has suddenly appeared outside of Las Vegas.”
“Yes, yes. I’ve already got that part.”
Unfazed, he continued. “It covers about a square mile and is of unknown origin. We’ve got an AWAC en route to the site and two F-35s from Groom Lake are already orbiting five miles out. All air traffic in and out of McCarran International has been halted or diverted elsewhere. Local police and Homeland Security are currently working to cordon off the area on the ground.” He pointed at one of the screens. “That feed is from one of our military satellites that was fortunate enough to be watching at the time.”
“Any hostile activity?”
“None yet, ma’am. The relevant personnel have all been contacted and are on their way. The Secretary of Defense should be here at any moment.”
“Very good, Leroy,” she said, as she took her seat at the head of the long oval table. As she waited for the others to arrive, she contemplated the scenes on the ever-changing screens, frustrated with the lack of information at her disposal. She had seen the UFO files and knew that Earth had been visited before. She knew that this could only be another visit, but for what purpose? She crossed her fingers and hoped that they had come in peace.
Part 2 by Glenn R. Frank
“Osiris Flight, be advised, telemetry and comms are on live-feed to the White House Sit-Room.”
Maj. Holder knew this was as much a jab at his frequent use of profanity as it was critical information. He could feel his wingman’s silent laughter, in spite of the radio silence that followed.
“Osiris One. Acknowledged,” Holder responded.
Holder looked down to his left toward the pyramid. His F-35’s helmet visor displayed the view as if he were looking through the side of his aircraft. It accented the huge object with infrared and data overlays.
“The structure has no radar return but is visible as solid material on all other wavelengths. Request permission for close approach.”
“Granted, Osiris One.”
“Osiris Two, maintain five-mile orbit,” Holder instructed his wingman.
“Acknowledged,” came Capt. Anderson’s reply.
Holder rolled his plane left and pointed it at the pyramid. He approached and engaged the hover ability of his aircraft, slowing to a standstill half a mile from the structure.
“Surface still appears solid . . . Zero radar reflection . . . No signs of electronic emissions . . . .”
A point of light blazed on the surface of the pyramid, from which a dark object zipped over Holder’s head and accelerated toward Las Vegas. His heart pounded. He hesitated for just an instant before he spun his plane and punched the throttle in pursuit.
“Shit! Bogie deployment from the structure. Osiris flight in pursuit!”
Anderson’s F-35 zipped past him, chasing the unknown object as Holder boosted up to maximum afterburner speed. The dark, winged object flew over the Las Vegas Strip at an altitude of 1,000 feet, made two abrupt ninety degree turns, and sped straight back toward the pyramid. Anderson and Holder banked hard but couldn’t hold the turn as tight as the alien craft.
“Holy Cra . . . ” Holder caught himself mid-phrase. “Object has doubled back to the pyramid – we’re in pursuit.”
Flight control cut in. “Weapons release is not authorized, NOT authorized, pursue only.”
The object accelerated away from them and re-entered the side of the pyramid at full speed in a flash of light.
“I’m going through,” shouted Anderson.
“Veer off,” Holder ordered.
Anderson’s plane flew right into the side of the pyramid with a flash, just as the UFO had. He vanished from sight and radar.
“Osiris Two entered the Pyramid. I’m following him.”
“Negative, Osiris One . . .”
But Holder had already plunged into the pyramid.
Complete darkness enveloped his view. A shrill sound attacked his ears and a metallic taste filled his mouth, making him sick.
“Osiris Two . . . respond,” he managed to choke out. There was no reply.
The darkness cleared with another flash of light. It was replaced by a dim, blue landscape of hills and an enormous white disk dominating the sky.
Alarms blared – engine flameout.
Holder attempted a restart. No good. The engine was O2 starved and dead.
Wherever I am, there‘s not enough oxygen in this atmosphere!
The ground came up fast. He yanked the ejection trigger and the seat shot him through the canopy. He blacked out.
Glenn sure kicked the action into high gear! Next week, Jim Hamilton will pick up the baton again and add Part 3 in 500 words or less.
Check in next Friday for what is sure to be another thrilling part of “The Pyramid.”
If you enjoyed the story so far, please leave a kind comment for Jim and Glenn below. Anyone want to guess what will happen next?
The Circle of Champions, the winners of my monthly writing contests, bring forth another great Sci Fi story collaboration. Our consummate pass-the-baton leader, Jim Hamilton, joined forces with the newest Champions, Glenn R. Frank and Jeremy Wilson, to write a Sci Fi techno-thriller UFO sighting. Only this time, the whole world can see “The Pyramid.”
The Pyramid
A Circle of Champions collaboration story
Today, we unveil the first of five parts. Jim Hamilton kicks it off with a mysterious appearance and the U.S. president in the Situation Room.
The Pyramid
Part 1 by Jim Hamilton
At 2:27 p.m., on an otherwise unremarkable Friday afternoon, The Pyramid shimmered into being only 17.2 miles northwest of downtown Las Vegas. Fully a mile on a side and rising 4,000 feet above the desert landscape, it was impossible to miss.
By 2:37 p.m., hundreds of videos of it were already trending on every social media platform and two local news stations were transmitting raw footage as their helicopters flew towards it. Already, millions of people around the globe were beginning to endlessly speculate—each wanting to be the first to successfully guess the whys and wherefores of The Pyramid.
Two thousand miles to the east–2,095 miles to be exact–the U.S. president was holding a meeting in the Oval Office when the head of her security detail opened the door and said, “Madame President, I need for you to come with me right now. Protocol seven.”
Surprised at the sudden interruption, she immediately arose while apologizing, “Gentlemen, I’m afraid that you’ll have to excuse me.” She quickly followed the Secret Service agent out of the room and down the hall to the elevator.
As the car made its descent deep underground, the agent handed her a tablet. “You need to see this, ma’am.”
“What am I looking at?” she asked, as she watched the news video.
The chyron was too small to make out.
“It’s a giant pyramid, ma’am. It appeared about fifteen minutes ago outside Las Vegas.”
The elevator bell dinged and the doors parted. The President strode into the Situation Room and stood for a moment, studying the displays before addressing the Officer of the Day. “Status report!”
“Yes, ma’am. As you can see from the various video feeds, a large pyramid has suddenly appeared outside of Las Vegas.”
“Yes, yes. I’ve already got that part.”
Unfazed, he continued. “It covers about a square mile and is of unknown origin. We’ve got an AWAC en route to the site and two F-35s from Groom Lake are already orbiting five miles out. All air traffic in and out of McCarran International has been halted or diverted elsewhere. Local police and Homeland Security are currently working to cordon off the area on the ground.” He pointed at one of the screens. “That feed is from one of our military satellites that was fortunate enough to be watching at the time.”
“Any hostile activity?”
“None yet, ma’am. The relevant personnel have all been contacted and are on their way. The Secretary of Defense should be here at any moment.”
“Very good, Leroy,” she said, as she took her seat at the head of the long oval table. As she waited for the others to arrive, she contemplated the scenes on the ever-changing screens, frustrated with the lack of information at her disposal. She had seen the UFO files and knew that Earth had been visited before. She knew that this could only be another visit, but for what purpose? She crossed her fingers and hoped that they had come in peace.
Jim got us off to an incredible start. Next week, it will be up to Glenn R. Frank, the winner of my May Contest, to pick up the baton and move the story along in 500 words or less.
Check in next Friday for what is sure to be another thrilling part of “The Pyramid.”
If you enjoyed “The Pyramid” so far, please leave a kind comment for Jim Hamilton below. Anyone want to guess what will happen next?
During the month of June, I’m sharing the finalist stories from the May Contest. Today’s featured finalist is Shanel Wilson.
Shanel is a writer who has been creating stories from her earliest memories as a child. She loves to explore the core of human nature in extraordinary circumstances, whether that is on a deep space mission or climbing to a nearby antenna array. Shanel is also one of my Champions, a winner of my monthly writing contest, and a frequent finalist of the contest. Whenever she decides to enter, she writes an excellent ending, which I love to share. You can also see more of her writing at starviewsbyshanel.wordpress.com.
In this May Contest story, Shanel found a sinister thread in the directions from Halcyon 8 Perimeter and Belt Space Control. To the young scrapper, something does not seem right. So the scrapper with few friends turns hero, even at the risk of making an enemy.
I started the story below. See how Shanel starts after the red line and takes us to a fresh and gripping ending.
Mayday
By Shanel Wilson and Matthew Cross
Mayday, Mayday, Mayday! Halcyon 5 Space Control, this is United Polity Ship 999Q2-292-383-858-112, courier class. I have multiple air and fuel leaks following a collision with unknown debris—just dust probably—checking scanners now, mmmm, the immediate danger appears to have cleared, but I’ve cut engines to conserve fuel and prevent an explosion. Here are my coordinates. [Series of beeps, clicks and static sound.]
I’m listening to the Mayday from the cockpit of the Scrappy Doo, a merchant scrapper. Don’t ask about the name. It was Mom’s idea, and after she passed, it seemed disrespectful to change the name.
The shipboard comp is automatically recording this message and storing away the coordinates. I recognize the coordinate prefixes. The Polity courier is in my quadrant of the Belt, the vast ring of asteroids that forms the outer limits of the Halcyon system. But that covers a lot of space. After all, the Belt’s diameter is wider than the rest of the solar system inside of it.
I’m the only one on board, but even so my air’s gonna run out in less than 8 hours. Even if I blew all the fuel—if I wanted to risk an explosion—I’d be at least 200 hours out from Halcyon 5. I need a priority pickup under authority of the Polity Navy.
Eight hours of air. It’s every spacer’s nightmare. Without a rescue, you know the hour and the method of your death. And suffocation is a bad way to go.
I’m watching my own scanners as I listen. When you’re in the Belt, you have to be on constant watch. Courier-112’s case proves the point. A small shower of pebbles or even just a patch of dust can perforate a hull and turn it into a sieve. Doesn’t matter whether you fly into it or it flies into you.
The population of the Belt is sizable–mostly miners and scrappers like me. But we’re spread out over so much space you can go years without seeing anyone unless you intend to. So I’m certain someone else will answer the Mayday call. But that’s because I forgot about the family’s luck.
I open my eyes and check my scanners again. That’s when I see the blinking red comm light. My stomach drops.
Reluctantly, I lean forward and reach slowly for the comm switch. Click.
“Scrappy Doo. This is Halcyon 8 Perimeter and Belt Space Control. This is a priority comm.”
It’s not that I don’t want to help. But I have my own problems. I just loaded up the Doo five days ago with supplies on credit and I need to gather some scrap to pay back Fram. He’s an old friend of Mom’s and the only outfitter who will give me credit. Since Mom died almost a year ago I’ve been living hand to mouth.
And I’ve got a lead on a good haul that could square me with Fram for good. Maybe even give me a small cushion. So I don’t need distractions.
“This is Scrappy Doo,” I mumble.
“Did you receive Mayday UPS Courier-112?”
They know I did. You would have to bore into the middle of a planet not to receive a Mayday. Even the wilds of the Belt are filled with boosts to carry emergency messages.
“Affirmative.”
In my head, I’m repeating a mantra. Not me, not me, not me . . .
“You are the closest ship to Courier-112. Your ship reports you have adequate fuel to reach the Courier and reach orbit at Halcyon 8.”
My head thumps on the control panel. I bought all that fuel on credit. And now they want me to burn it all in a rescue mission for a lousy UPS courier with one passenger?
But what can I do? Space Control and my ship already made the automated electronic handshake. They know my position, my vector, my fuel levels. Control has all the data shown on my control panel and faster comps to spin it up into any simulation they want.
That’s why I’m sitting cross-legged in the pilot’s seat with my crossed fingers tucked under my thighs, hoping I won’t be close enough to help.
I’m also biting my lip, but that’s just because everybody gets nervous when you hear a Mayday. It makes your heart jump into your throat.
If I don’t render aid, then I’ll lose the Scrappy Doo the first time I make port. They’ll impound the Doo and throw me in the brig.
“This is Scrappy Doo.” I hear some chuckles in the background from Control. I grit my teeth but then smile. With Fram as my only friend, I can’t afford enemies. I smile because you can hear the difference over comms. “I’m changing course to render aid.”
“Affirmative Scrappy Doo. We’ve fed your ship the coordinates for the optimum intercept. We’re also sending a priority UPS Medical Transport to rendezvous with you near the rim of the Belt. Thank you for your service and we’ll try to get you back on your course as soon as possible.”
Even without checking my comp, I know this trip is going to use up half my fuel. If speed is not a factor, you burn the most fuel just changing course. One turn to meet the courier and one to head to the rendezvous point with the med transport . . . I just shake my head.
I paste on a fake smile.
“Control, have you confirmed the identity of Courier, umm . . .” I’ve already forgotten the courier ship’s designation. I check a monitor. “UPS Courier-112? I’m solo crew and I have minimal weapons capability.”
I can’t keep all the quaver out of my voice. It’s actually worse than it sounds. My shields are only rated for space debris and minor port collisions. And the ‘defensive lasers’ that came standard with this scrapper model are really just part of the array of cutting tools for scrapping. Sure, they’re strong, but the aiming and target-tracking programs are a joke, and the combat display features on my monitors are clearly an afterthought.
So, I’m not completely defenseless. But any well-armed pirate . . . Let’s just say the thought makes me damp under the arms.
“No worries, Scrappy Doo, we’ve confirmed the identity of the UPS courier. It’s the real deal.” There’s some chatter in the background. “That courier has some special Navy designations, too. They’re classified, but let’s just say the passenger is somebody important.”
A VIP, huh? Maybe there’s an upside here, as long as he and I both survive this.
They can’t save me from pirates, just hunt them down if I’m killed. I’m so relieved.
“We’ll live monitor your progress until rendezvous. I’m also sending your ship a boost code. Your ship’s automated beacon will warn all other ships that you are under Mayday orders and protected by Control and Polity Navy authority.”
Oh, goody, I think. Control is millions of kloms away. They can’t save me from pirates, just hunt them down if I’m killed. I’m so relieved.
“Thank you, Control. Changing course to respond to Mayday UPS Courier-112.”
The comp says six hours to intercept, including deceleration to match speed and direction of the courier. That’s good. The courier reported he had less than 8 hours of air, which is not a precise number. But air consumption is not a precise measurement, no matter what the engineers say, and add a tiny, undetected leak or two and it’s anyone’s guess.
If the courier is conscious when I arrive and the ship’s hatch is not damaged, then bringing him aboard will take no time at all. If he’s trapped in a can leaking fuel, that will get tricky.
I spend the first hour checking Control’s intercept calculations. Of course, they’re right, but it’s a good math exercise to run. How often do you get a chance to run real space math and check it against a Control calculation? If you want to pilot a ship, you gotta know your math. Calculations also calm and center the mind.
That task done, I try and take a nap. It’s hopeless, of course. I’m nervous for the courier. I’m terrified for me.
So I do some more math. I plug myself back into the comp and run air, water and food calculations for two people aboard the Doo. AOK.
I run rescue simulations, practicing some extractions with each of my cutting tools. The first run throughs are pretty smooth. Control didn’t send me much for specs on the courier, so I send a message to request those. I get back a set of generic specs on Polity courier ships. I send again, asking for Courier-112’s specs from its own computer. The terse message back says those are classified.
Classified? They want me to run a rescue and not give me the specs? That sounds like the old joke about “military intelligence” being an oxymoron.
“A bunch of morons,” I say to myself.
I spend the rest of the trip checking equipment again and again. And then I check it again.
Before I’m in visual sight of Courier-112, I hail it. The ships already made their electronic handshake. Something in the codes from Control must have authorized the courier ship to do that much. But the courier ship won’t tell me anything about passengers or bio signs. It’s classified, I’m sure.
After three explosions, my hands are shaking.
The courier’s pilot is not responding to my hails, either.
I add fuel leaks to the rescue simulations. Big mistake. After three explosions, my hands are shaking. I unstrap and float to the back to the equipment storage.
Until I was close, I didn’t want him to use up any air talking. I could have just texted, of course. But to tell the truth, I put it off until now because I didn’t want any bad news.
When I reach visual range, it doesn’t look so bad. Courier-112 looks to be in a single piece. It’s riding straight, not spinning out of control, gliding smoothly on course. I let go of the breath I’d been holding in.
The Doo and I go through the docking sequence together. The Doo aligns with Courier-112 and I make the final small adjustments visually. I feel the slight vibration as the ships connect. Textbook docking!
I slump back in my seat, relieved. Ships only make this kind of docking maneuver in cases of rescue or combat. I’d only done it once before with Mom at my side.
The relief doesn’t last long. I still can’t raise a response from the courier’s pilot. I try everything, including the comms built into the Doo’s docking arms connected to the courier.
I’m going to have to go outside. Vac, vac, vac!
I hear Mom’s voice in my head. “Never hurry. Think it through. Make a plan. It’s only the spacers that lose their heads and rush around that get hurt.”
Instead of unlatching, I check my monitors. First, assess the situation. I had set a countdown clock based on 8 hours of air. If the courier’s estimate was good, he should have plenty of air left. But he could still be injured. Unconscious.
I went through my options. Legally, I could report this to Control and stay in my seat. The duty to render aid on a Mayday does not extend to space walks. Legally, all I had to do was wait here until the courier’s pilot climbed aboard or death was confirmed. I could even earn a small commission just giving the ship a push in the right direction for a Halcyon recovery crew.
I run through all my options twice, but the truth is, I’m a spacer. And in space, a spacer renders aid. Because this could happen to anyone. Mom would agree.
I send Control a quick update, half hoping they’ll tell me to sit tight. I get no response. That happens in the Belt. Dead patches run throughout. With shaking hands, I unlatch and climb into my suit. I move slowly and deliberately. I think through every action.
Before I know it, I’m opening the hatch of Courier-112. So far, Control and the ship’s own comp have been so secretive, I half expect red lights and sirens when I pull the inset lever to reveal the wheel. Instead, the wheel begins to turn itself. The pilot told the ship to let me in. That doesn’t mean he’s conscious, I remind myself. He could have set the sequence before passing out.
The hatch opens, revealing the clear film of a gel seal. A courier ship is too small for a separate decompression chamber. Only the seal separates the cabin’s oxygen and open space. Through the film, I see the top of the pilot’s head. He’s wearing a suit and helmet as well. He does not move.
I push my helmet through the film and connect to his helmet.
Both our reflective faceshields open automatically at the connection, leaving clear panes for us to see through. Our suits have synched their own comms.
His eyes are closed. A shock runs through me. I’m too late, I think.
Then he opens his eyes. He has dull blue eyes, almost gray. He smiles slightly as his eyes focus in on mine. Then his pupils open wider as he examines my face.
“You’re just a kid!”
“Yeah, well, I’m the kid that’s saving your hide.”
“Negative, it’s too late for that,” he says. He looks down.
I see a detail I missed before. Small threads of red extend from the chest of his suit, wiggling in the thin air. Blood. The suit sealed itself, of course. Just two small holes, but they’re high on the chest.
And then I see the bubbles of red in the corners of his mouth.
“Are you alone?” he asks.
What a creepy question. That’s my first thought. But it’s an important one. A fair question, I guess.
“Yes, I’m the solo captain-pilot of the Scrappy Doo.”
I see confusion in his eyes.
“I’m a scrapper.”
“Negative,” he says. “Now you’re UPS Courier-112. Get this to Halcyon 5.”
He raises his hand to me, holding a black slip of plastic. A data chip, no doubt.
“Halcyon 8?” I say weakly.
“Negative,” he mumbles, “Halcyon 5. It’s . . . “ He gasps and I hear burbling sounds. “. . . urgent.”
START EDITING HERE
His eyes close and his arm goes limp, still holding the plastic slip. I slowly reach out and take it from his glove.
“UPS Courier-112, please respond.”
I barely hear the words coming from my own helmet as I examine the small bit of plastic. It is smaller than other data chips I’ve seen. Maybe that’s why it’s classified.
“UPS Courier-112, please respond. Are you in possession of the asset?”
“This is the pilot of the Scrappy Doo. Is this Control? I just made contact with UPS Courier-112. I’m too late.”
“Are you in possession of the asset?” the voice repeated.
“Uh, I have the data chip, if that’s what you’re asking. I can pass it off at the medical rendezvous . . .”
“Negative. Return to the operational vessel and report to Halcyon 8.”
“You don’t understand. The courier is dead. This is the pilot of the Scrappy Doo.”
“You are the courier now, and your vessel is now considered the UPS Courier-112.”
This is happening too fast.
Slow down, I tell myself. Okay, what are the facts so far? Control asked me to render aid to the UPS Courier-112 because of their Mayday. I arrived and made contact. The pilot died after giving me whatever this is, telling me to get it to Halcyon 5. Now a voice that may or may not be Control is ordering me to Halcyon 8 as the new UPS Courier-112. What was I missing?
I look over the controls in front of the dead pilot. The nav shows Halcyon 8 as the destination. Why did he say Halcyon 5?
“Your new coordinates have been delivered to your vessel. Your arrival imperative.”
A ping from my suit alerts me that the Scrappy Doo has a new destination target and will begin course in five minutes, whether I am undocked here or not. I quickly transfer the remaining fuel that’s left in the leaking UPS Courier-112 back to the Scrappy Doo and head through the hatch.
I stash the data chip in my pocket and get to work. I’ve only seen Mom attempt this once and she failed and that was just a training test. This was the real deal.
“Don’t fail me now, math!” I say to the console in front of me.
I get another ping that there is one minute left until the new course will take over the controls. Sweat beads on my forehead. Just a few more calculations. Just a little more.
“I did it!”
The course is disengaged. I let out a sigh of relief, but only for a moment. Whoever sent those coordinates will know soon enough that I’m not on my way to them. So much for not making any new enemies.
I retrieve the plastic slip from my pocket.
“I hope you’re worth all this,” I say to it. “Ok, looks like scrapping will have to wait for now. Let’s move.”
I cross my fingers and legs as I set a course for Halcyon 5.
If you enjoyed Shanel Wilson’s prize-winning ending, please make sure and share some kind comments below.
And if you have not already read the original contest-winning story, read it here!
Glenn won my May Contest by writing a thrilling surprise ending to “Mayday: A Sci Fi Rescue.”
How did you get into Sci Fi writing?
Glenn R. Frank, doing some “mission control” cosplay at Disneyland Resort.
I became interested in writing after watching a number of Drew Wagar’s Twitch streams. He is a Sci Fi/Fantasy author who wrote a number of books I loved reading, and he was using Twitch to do a “Sci Fi and Fantasy Writing Stream.”
After he had gone through several topics, he suggested it would be fun to do some hands-on and practical writing together, to put into practice what we had learned. We worked as a group to world-build and create a timeline of “epochs” surrounding our basic outline story. Every writer took one of these epochs and circumstances in the timeline and we each composed our own stories in that world that were stand-alone tales, but also could be connected because of the timeline and shared world. This project became the Nine Streams of Consciousness anthology, which we self-published on Amazon.
We wrote our stories independently, then critiqued, edited, and offered advice/constructive criticism on-stream and through a shared Word document online. Writers in the group were from Europe, the U.K. and the U.S. so everything was done online without ever meeting in person.
Everyone learned a lot and grew in their confidence and abilities through this process. I had originally intended to only write one 10,000-word story for the book, but I ended up writing three more in the 3,000- to 5,000-word size. In the end, we had fifteen stories, written by nine authors. Each story has its own unique style, point of view, and emphasis. It was a great first-time writing experience for a number of us. Only four or so of the authors in it had previously been published, but everyone did an amazing job and we are all very proud of how well it came out.
Other than writing and reporting for a non-profit organization in their newsletter, I have not really had a lot of writing experience, at least not in the realm of fiction writing. I really only have written fiction here and there for fun or myself, never intending to publish it. But the anthology project lit a fire under me and made me want to write fiction in a more focused way for publication.
I have always been a Sci Fi, and a space nerd, which of course makes Sci Fi my favorite type of book to read and write. I also love fantasy, ancient history, and military ships and aircraft, but Sci Fi is my true love. I hope to produce a Sci Fi novel of my own, or maybe a series, in the next year. I hope to tie some of my other interests, such as history and science, into this work in progress as well.
Why did you decide to enter the May Contest?
I decided it would be a fun challenge to try to match the style and feel of someone else’s unfinished story. I invited a number of friends, including a few from our anthology project, to give it a try, too, to give it a little more competition. I’m not sure how many others submitted endings for the contest, but I enjoyed solving the mystery that the original story introduced.
It was fun and challenging to take the hints, clues, and mysteries in the beginning of the story and imagine solutions and connections that they might hint at for the ending. It was a lot like doing a jigsaw puzzle where the ending was hinted at and in relation to the completed part of the puzzle, but I could make the last part whatever I imagined it should be.
I have not co-written a single story before. The Nine Streams of Consciousness anthology project did allow a lot of shared world-building and editing collaboration, but we did write our stories independently of each other. Yet we also looked for places in the stories where we could connect them with one another. We shared some characters, places, and events which tied them together into a connected narrative.
How did you find the contest challenging?
The challenging part was fitting an ending which wrapped up the story into 500 words or less. I wanted to make sure the implications of the conflicts and details given in the beginning had payoff and were satisfactorily tied into the ending. Five hundred words can come up on you pretty fast when your imagination is flowing!
I read and re-read the given starting story a few times and made notes on elements that were hinted at, like the character Fram, which the point-of-view character talked about. I asked myself questions about the hints in the story like “What would be on the data chip?” and “Why would he be trying to get to planet 5 instead of 8? — Was 8 or 5 closer?” Writing out some of these details and questions helped me conceive of the ending I wrote.
I encourage others to give story writing a try and see what comes of it. This monthly challenge is a fun mental exercise–a creative puzzle to solve.
During the month of June, I’m sharing the finalist stories from the May Contest. Today’s featured finalist is Carla Ra.
Carla Ra is a self-described “scientist by day, sci-fi writer by night” and hails from Sao Paulo, Brazil. She recently released a Sci Fi anthology, Artificial Rebellion, which you can get for free by visiting her website at authorcarlara.com.
In writing her story ending, Carla picked up on a theme I had wanted to explore further: Pirates! When writing the story beginning, I wanted to make space pirates a real theme of the story. But due to space limits, I just mentioned it as a reasonable fear held by our scrapper. Carla grabbed that idea and took the scrapper down a darker path.
I started the story below. See how Carla starts after the red line and takes us to a surprise ending.
Mayday
By Carla Ra and Matthew Cross
Mayday, Mayday, Mayday! Halcyon 5 Space Control, this is United Polity Ship 999Q2-292-383-858-112, courier class. I have multiple air and fuel leaks following a collision with unknown debris—just dust probably—checking scanners now, mmmm, the immediate danger appears to have cleared, but I’ve cut engines to conserve fuel and prevent an explosion. Here are my coordinates. [Series of beeps, clicks and static sound.]
I’m listening to the Mayday from the cockpit of the Scrappy Doo, a merchant scrapper. Don’t ask about the name. It was Mom’s idea, and after she passed, it seemed disrespectful to change the name.
The shipboard comp is automatically recording this message and storing away the coordinates. I recognize the coordinate prefixes. The Polity courier is in my quadrant of the Belt, the vast ring of asteroids that forms the outer limits of the Halcyon system. But that covers a lot of space. After all, the Belt’s diameter is wider than the rest of the solar system inside of it.
I’m the only one on board, but even so my air’s gonna run out in less than 8 hours. Even if I blew all the fuel—if I wanted to risk an explosion—I’d be at least 200 hours out from Halcyon 5. I need a priority pickup under authority of the Polity Navy.
Eight hours of air. It’s every spacer’s nightmare. Without a rescue, you know the hour and the method of your death. And suffocation is a bad way to go.
I’m watching my own scanners as I listen. When you’re in the Belt, you have to be on constant watch. Courier-112’s case proves the point. A small shower of pebbles or even just a patch of dust can perforate a hull and turn it into a sieve. Doesn’t matter whether you fly into it or it flies into you.
The population of the Belt is sizable–mostly miners and scrappers like me. But we’re spread out over so much space you can go years without seeing anyone unless you intend to. So I’m certain someone else will answer the Mayday call. But that’s because I forgot about the family’s luck.
I open my eyes and check my scanners again. That’s when I see the blinking red comm light. My stomach drops.
Reluctantly, I lean forward and reach slowly for the comm switch. Click.
“Scrappy Doo. This is Halcyon 8 Perimeter and Belt Space Control. This is a priority comm.”
It’s not that I don’t want to help. But I have my own problems. I just loaded up the Doo five days ago with supplies on credit and I need to gather some scrap to pay back Fram. He’s an old friend of Mom’s and the only outfitter who will give me credit. Since Mom died almost a year ago I’ve been living hand to mouth.
And I’ve got a lead on a good haul that could square me with Fram for good. Maybe even give me a small cushion. So I don’t need distractions.
“This is Scrappy Doo,” I mumble.
“Did you receive Mayday UPS Courier-112?”
They know I did. You would have to bore into the middle of a planet not to receive a Mayday. Even the wilds of the Belt are filled with boosts to carry emergency messages.
“Affirmative.”
In my head, I’m repeating a mantra. Not me, not me, not me . . .
“You are the closest ship to Courier-112. Your ship reports you have adequate fuel to reach the Courier and reach orbit at Halcyon 8.”
My head thumps on the control panel. I bought all that fuel on credit. And now they want me to burn it all in a rescue mission for a lousy UPS courier with one passenger?
But what can I do? Space Control and my ship already made the automated electronic handshake. They know my position, my vector, my fuel levels. Control has all the data shown on my control panel and faster comps to spin it up into any simulation they want.
That’s why I’m sitting cross-legged in the pilot’s seat with my crossed fingers tucked under my thighs, hoping I won’t be close enough to help.
I’m also biting my lip, but that’s just because everybody gets nervous when you hear a Mayday. It makes your heart jump into your throat.
If I don’t render aid, then I’ll lose the Scrappy Doo the first time I make port. They’ll impound the Doo and throw me in the brig.
“This is Scrappy Doo.” I hear some chuckles in the background from Control. I grit my teeth but then smile. With Fram as my only friend, I can’t afford enemies. I smile because you can hear the difference over comms. “I’m changing course to render aid.”
“Affirmative Scrappy Doo. We’ve fed your ship the coordinates for the optimum intercept. We’re also sending a priority UPS Medical Transport to rendezvous with you near the rim of the Belt. Thank you for your service and we’ll try to get you back on your course as soon as possible.”
Even without checking my comp, I know this trip is going to use up half my fuel. If speed is not a factor, you burn the most fuel just changing course. One turn to meet the courier and one to head to the rendezvous point with the med transport . . . I just shake my head.
I paste on a fake smile.
“Control, have you confirmed the identity of Courier, umm . . .” I’ve already forgotten the courier ship’s designation. I check a monitor. “UPS Courier-112? I’m solo crew and I have minimal weapons capability.”
I can’t keep all the quaver out of my voice. It’s actually worse than it sounds. My shields are only rated for space debris and minor port collisions. And the ‘defensive lasers’ that came standard with this scrapper model are really just part of the array of cutting tools for scrapping. Sure, they’re strong, but the aiming and target-tracking programs are a joke, and the combat display features on my monitors are clearly an afterthought.
So, I’m not completely defenseless. But any well-armed pirate . . . Let’s just say the thought makes me damp under the arms.
“No worries, Scrappy Doo, we’ve confirmed the identity of the UPS courier. It’s the real deal.” There’s some chatter in the background. “That courier has some special Navy designations, too. They’re classified, but let’s just say the passenger is somebody important.”
A VIP, huh? Maybe there’s an upside here, as long as he and I both survive this.
They can’t save me from pirates, just hunt them down if I’m killed. I’m so relieved.
“We’ll live monitor your progress until rendezvous. I’m also sending your ship a boost code. Your ship’s automated beacon will warn all other ships that you are under Mayday orders and protected by Control and Polity Navy authority.”
Oh, goody, I think. Control is millions of kloms away. They can’t save me from pirates, just hunt them down if I’m killed. I’m so relieved.
“Thank you, Control. Changing course to respond to Mayday UPS Courier-112.”
The comp says six hours to intercept, including deceleration to match speed and direction of the courier. That’s good. The courier reported he had less than 8 hours of air, which is not a precise number. But air consumption is not a precise measurement, no matter what the engineers say, and add a tiny, undetected leak or two and it’s anyone’s guess.
If the courier is conscious when I arrive and the ship’s hatch is not damaged, then bringing him aboard will take no time at all. If he’s trapped in a can leaking fuel, that will get tricky.
I spend the first hour checking Control’s intercept calculations. Of course, they’re right, but it’s a good math exercise to run. How often do you get a chance to run real space math and check it against a Control calculation? If you want to pilot a ship, you gotta know your math. Calculations also calm and center the mind.
That task done, I try and take a nap. It’s hopeless, of course. I’m nervous for the courier. I’m terrified for me.
So I do some more math. I plug myself back into the comp and run air, water and food calculations for two people aboard the Doo. AOK.
I run rescue simulations, practicing some extractions with each of my cutting tools. The first run throughs are pretty smooth. Control didn’t send me much for specs on the courier, so I send a message to request those. I get back a set of generic specs on Polity courier ships. I send again, asking for Courier-112’s specs from its own computer. The terse message back says those are classified.
Classified? They want me to run a rescue and not give me the specs? That sounds like the old joke about “military intelligence” being an oxymoron.
“A bunch of morons,” I say to myself.
I spend the rest of the trip checking equipment again and again. And then I check it again.
Before I’m in visual sight of Courier-112, I hail it. The ships already made their electronic handshake. Something in the codes from Control must have authorized the courier ship to do that much. But the courier ship won’t tell me anything about passengers or bio signs. It’s classified, I’m sure.
After three explosions, my hands are shaking.
The courier’s pilot is not responding to my hails, either.
I add fuel leaks to the rescue simulations. Big mistake. After three explosions, my hands are shaking. I unstrap and float to the back to the equipment storage.
Until I was close, I didn’t want him to use up any air talking. I could have just texted, of course. But to tell the truth, I put it off until now because I didn’t want any bad news.
When I reach visual range, it doesn’t look so bad. Courier-112 looks to be in a single piece. It’s riding straight, not spinning out of control, gliding smoothly on course. I let go of the breath I’d been holding in.
The Doo and I go through the docking sequence together. The Doo aligns with Courier-112 and I make the final small adjustments visually. I feel the slight vibration as the ships connect. Textbook docking!
I slump back in my seat, relieved. Ships only make this kind of docking maneuver in cases of rescue or combat. I’d only done it once before with Mom at my side.
The relief doesn’t last long. I still can’t raise a response from the courier’s pilot. I try everything, including the comms built into the Doo’s docking arms connected to the courier.
I’m going to have to go outside. Vac, vac, vac!
I hear Mom’s voice in my head. “Never hurry. Think it through. Make a plan. It’s only the spacers that lose their heads and rush around that get hurt.”
Instead of unlatching, I check my monitors. First, assess the situation. I had set a countdown clock based on 8 hours of air. If the courier’s estimate was good, he should have plenty of air left. But he could still be injured. Unconscious.
I went through my options. Legally, I could report this to Control and stay in my seat. The duty to render aid on a Mayday does not extend to space walks. Legally, all I had to do was wait here until the courier’s pilot climbed aboard or death was confirmed. I could even earn a small commission just giving the ship a push in the right direction for a Halcyon recovery crew.
I run through all my options twice, but the truth is, I’m a spacer. And in space, a spacer renders aid. Because this could happen to anyone. Mom would agree.
I send Control a quick update, half hoping they’ll tell me to sit tight. I get no response. That happens in the Belt. Dead patches run throughout. With shaking hands, I unlatch and climb into my suit. I move slowly and deliberately. I think through every action.
Before I know it, I’m opening the hatch of Courier-112. So far, Control and the ship’s own comp have been so secretive, I half expect red lights and sirens when I pull the inset lever to reveal the wheel. Instead, the wheel begins to turn itself. The pilot told the ship to let me in. That doesn’t mean he’s conscious, I remind myself. He could have set the sequence before passing out.
The hatch opens, revealing the clear film of a gel seal. A courier ship is too small for a separate decompression chamber. Only the seal separates the cabin’s oxygen and open space. Through the film, I see the top of the pilot’s head. He’s wearing a suit and helmet as well. He does not move.
I push my helmet through the film and connect to his helmet.
Both our reflective faceshields open automatically at the connection, leaving clear panes for us to see through. Our suits have synched their own comms.
His eyes are closed. A shock runs through me. I’m too late, I think.
Then he opens his eyes. He has dull blue eyes, almost gray. He smiles slightly as his eyes focus in on mine. Then his pupils open wider as he examines my face.
“You’re just a kid!”
“Yeah, well, I’m the kid that’s saving your hide.”
“Negative, it’s too late for that,” he says. He looks down.
I see a detail I missed before. Small threads of red extend from the chest of his suit, wiggling in the thin air. Blood. The suit sealed itself, of course. Just two small holes, but they’re high on the chest.
And then I see the bubbles of red in the corners of his mouth.
“Are you alone?” he asks.
What a creepy question. That’s my first thought. But it’s an important one. A fair question, I guess.
“Yes, I’m the solo captain-pilot of the Scrappy Doo.”
I see confusion in his eyes.
“I’m a scrapper.”
“Negative,” he says. “Now you’re UPS Courier-112. Get this to Halcyon 5.”
He raises his hand to me, holding a black slip of plastic. A data chip, no doubt.
“Halcyon 8?” I say weakly.
“Negative,” he mumbles, “Halcyon 5. It’s . . . “ He gasps and I hear burbling sounds. “. . . urgent.”
He is . . . I take three steps backward before running as fast as I can, stumbling on my way back to the Doo.
My hands shake so much I have trouble clicking the comm switch.
“He’s dead,” I say, gasping.
“Can you elaborate, Scrappy Doo?”
“I went inside, and he—” I choke. The guilt for leaving him there is tightening my throat. The fear is forcing tears out of my eyes.
I hear chattering on the radio.
“Scrappy Doo, you were not authorized to enter the ship.”
Not authorized? I was on a rescue mission! I had the option of staying inside the Doo, but no decent person would sit back in this situation. I rub the tears off my cheek. A hoarse, grave voice spoke in the background of Control.
“Ask him if he was alive.”
“He died in my hands,” I answer before they ask me.
The man in the background now addresses me.
“Did he give you something?” I hesitate to answer, so he continues, “Maybe a microchip?”
It brings the dead man’s request back to my mind.
“Yes,” I say. “I have to take it to Halcyon 5.”
“No. I’ll keep it. Your rescue mission will be done after I retrieve the item.”
Something doesn’t seem right. Control’s request goes against a rescue-mission protocol. And they’re not even worried about the deceased crew member.
I receive a second signal, encrypted in a frequency that screams unofficial. If it’s an attack, I’m doomed. “Hi there.”
Yep, definitely unofficial. I ignore it, not knowing what to say.
The softly-spoken woman insists. “Do not hand the microchip to Halcyon 8 Control. The attack on UPS Courier-112 was their doing. They arranged it to look like an accident and sent you here to confirm their story. All for the data in this chip.”
I realize I had a firm grip around the microchip. I open my hand and stare at it for a second. My heart is in my mouth.
“Are you a pirate?” I ask.
“I’m your escort. Now, you have two options. Come to Halcyon 5 with us, or risk getting into an accident, just like Courier-112 did.”
I fall back in the chair and tuck my hands under my thighs, rocking back and forth. Is it true? Am I in danger?
“We pay well,” she says.
That is a compelling argument.
Assess the situation, think it through, make a plan. Why is it so tricky under pressure?
“Scrappy Doo, do you copy?” Control says.
It seems they did not intercept the pirate’s signal. I take a deep breath and straighten my back.
“It’s UPS Courier-112, now.” Mom would forgive me for changing the name. “I’m going to Halcyon 5.”
“Good boy,” the pirate says.
I smile. Now I have better friends than Fram.
If you enjoyed Carla Ra’s prize-winning ending, please make sure and share some kind comments below.
And if you have not already read the original contest-winning story, read it here!
